


A Catechism for Lovers

by Mairead1916



Category: Outlander (TV)
Genre: F/F, F/M, Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-05-20
Updated: 2017-10-09
Packaged: 2018-11-03 01:00:19
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 15
Words: 62,613
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10956402
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mairead1916/pseuds/Mairead1916
Summary: In 1740s Scotland, Mairead, a young Irish woman fleeing British persecution, arrives at Castle Leoch. There she meets and quickly falls in love with Jamie Fraser but, when Jamie leaves for France and a mysterious woman comes to stay at the castle, Mairead is forced to question her assumptions about love and ultimately to choose between the two. Jamie x OC 1 x OC 2





	1. Jamie

Maggie straightened up and wiped droplets of sweat off her forehead with her arm. She looked down at Mr. Beaton, the experienced castle healer slowly dying under her—she was sure—far less capable care. He was finally asleep but still not quite at rest, his head rolling back and forth and his mouth emitting occasional moans. His face was gray and clammy but he was no longer sweating. This was likely a bad sign.

“Miss,” a voice called to her from the doorway. “Miss, you’re needed elsewhere. A man’s been injured.”

Turning toward the voice, Maggie began to protest. “I—” But there was nothing left for her to do for Mr. Beaton. “Yes, fine,” she said. “But someone needs to stay with him. Broden, he’s been helping me. The little boy from the kitchen. Please, if you could fetch him and get him to stay with him. Or, maybe an older girl. Just, someone should be here.”

“Yes, of course. Please, follow me.”

Maggie followed the young man out into the narrow hallway.

“Aren’t you going to—” she began.

“I will send for the boy as soon as I can.” The man was impatient. “I must bring you to his room first.”

As they passed through a series of dark passageways, Maggie worried about leaving Mr. Beaton alone and hoped that the man would finish with her soon and go off to get Broden. Still, part of her was grateful for the guide. She had arrived at the castle just weeks prior and was still confused by all its rooms and halls. In fact, her first night there she had gotten so lost on her way back to her room that she had eventually given up and slept in the hallway, only to be found the next morning by a surprised but sympathetic Mrs. Fitz, the castle’s cook and general runner of the servants.

After at least five minutes, they arrived at a closed door which the man tentatively opened to reveal a room full of men clustered around a large canopy bed upon which a large man lay face down, his blood soaked shirt exposed.

The man who had led her here knocked on the opened door. He looked nervous and in the increased light of the fire, Maggie could see he was young, seventeen or eighteen, around her age.

“Yes?” a man from the group turned to look at them. He was also tall and mostly bald with a gray mustache and beard that obscured the bottom half of his face. Maggie recognized him as Dougal MacKenzie, the laird’s brother.

The young man began. “Sir, this is Miss…”

“Ó Broin, sir.” Maggie stepped forward.

“Where’s Beaton?”

“He’s taken ill,” said the young man. “Miss Ó Broin has been tending to him. She knows some things about healing. That’s why I brought her here.”

“Ó Broin,” Dougal repeated. “You’re Irish, then?”

“Yes, sir. From Donegal.”

“Donegal. That’s good. I can never understand those southern bastards. Can you speak any English?”

“Not much.”

“Well, it’s a good thing your Gaelic’s not perverted then.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Where’d you learn healing?”

“From my mother.”

“What’s your Christian name, girl?”

“Mairead. Or Maggie, really.”

“I thought you didn’t speak English.”

“It’s what I’ve always been called.”

“Well, Maggie, let’s see what you can do with our young Jamie here.”

Maggie approached the bed slowly and bent over to look at the man on the bed. She gently touched his hand to get his attention. When he looked up from the bed, his face was white and waxy and his eyes looked scared.

“My name is Maggie and I’m going to see what I can do here.”

“Jamie,” said the man, nodding. “Thank you.”

“All right, Jamie. If you could just take your shirt off—or maybe I could take it off for you…” Maggie trailed off. She still wasn’t sure exactly what was wrong with him but knew she needed to get a closer look at whatever had stained his shirt.

Jamie moved to take his shirt off, then let out a short gasp. From up close, Maggie could see how thick the layer of blood was. As it dried, it had adhered to the shirt and the skin, gluing them together. Maggie instinctively reached for the knife she stored in a pouch by her ankle but then stopped, not sure she wanted these men to know she had such a thing.

“May I borrow a knife?” she asked.

A short man with matted brown hair and a face like a crab apple handed her his knife, eyeing her suspiciously as if afraid she wouldn’t know what to do with it once she got it.

“I’m going to cut it off, all right? I won’t stick you,” Maggie said to reassure Jamie, as well as herself and the cluster of men watching her.

While this helped, she still had to peel parts of the shirt off his back and she could hear him breathing in raspy bursts of air.

“Almost done.”

When she finally removed the last bits of fabric, it was like nothing she had ever seen before. Deep gashes were carved into his back from someone lashing him repeatedly and precisely. Entire strips of skin hung loose, attached by sinewy threads. His skin was raw and tough-looking, like a pig she had once seen hanging in a butcher’s shop, and all of it was covered in a brown-black layer of blood, trapping dirt and grass inside of the cuts. Maggie let out an involuntary, strangled “oh” and pressed her hand to her mouth.

She heard Dougal MacKenzie say, “The girl can’t handle it.”

“Who did this?” she asked.

“The English.”

Then the men began to whisper amongst themselves, phrases such as “what are we going to do with him?” and “was it safe to bring him here?” escaping periodically.

“Maggie?” Jamie whispered. “Can you make them leave? Please.”

 “Yes of course.” Maggie cleared her throat. “Um, I have to ask you all to leave because—”

The men kept talking, unfazed.

“Pardon me, sirs,” Maggie practically yelled. “I have to ask you to leave so that… I can have more space to work and more air can get in the room.”

“I’ll not be having some girl tell me where I can or cannot be,” said Dougal.

“Yes, sir, I’m sorry. I understand but I’m the only healer you have at the moment and this is what I need to work so you really must leave—all of you—if you want me to attend to him.”

Dougal pursed his lips together until they disappeared. He looked like a fitting toddler but Maggie knew he was far more dangerous than that. Then he walked out the door, the rest of the men following behind him. The young man who had come to get her left last.

“Could you also bring some cloth and a water basin and whiskey? And do get Broden, please.”

The young man nodded and left.

“Thank you,” Jamie said.

When the man returned a few minutes later, Maggie set her materials out on the window sill by the bed, organizing them as her mother had taught her. She encouraged Jamie to have some whiskey before they got to the painful task at hand. As she excavated the first gash, finding she needed to apply considerable pressure in order to pull out the blood and dirt, Jamie let out several muffled moans.

“I’m sorry. I know this hurts. Why don’t you talk to me? Tell me about your home.”

Jamie moaned again.   

“Don’t ask me about my home.”

“Oh, I’m sorry.”

Maggie continued working, feeling Jamie pull away from her slightly with each swipe of her cloth.

“Please,” he said. “Keep talking. Tell me about _your_ home.”

Maggie was taken aback, no more eager to talk about her home than Jamie was. Nonetheless, she soon heard herself describing her home in great detail, almost mechanically, as she focused the rest of her energy on Jamie’s lacerated back.

“It’s in Donegal,” she said. “But I haven’t been back there in years. It was nice, though. We lived just outside of town in a small house—nothing like this—and we had sheep and a few cows. There was a little dirt road that led up to our house and the rest of it was all green, both sides of the road. And that’s where our sheep and cows would graze and the grass would start out really high and then be cut right down to the ground by the end of autumn. And we kept a small garden that never really produced anything so we mostly traded milk and cheese and those sorts of things for potatoes and grain. And, uh, what else? It was just my mother and father and me and they uh… Well, actually what you really need to know about the house is the way it smelled. It was stone and turf and then we’d burn the turf too to keep us warm and—you must do this too but in a grand house like this, it wouldn’t be the same—it smelled almost like the house was on fire but of course it wasn’t. And being inside smelled like falling asleep outside on a sunny day, when you roll in the grass and your nose catches the warm dirt. I miss that the most, other than, of course, my—well, all the people there.”

She paused and looked up at the room’s high ceilings. They would never trap that warm peaty smell—or its heat for that matter—the way her low, earthen ceiling had. They were the ceilings of a rich man, or an idiot, or both. They were the ceilings of a man who never had to worry about the fire going out, who knew he could start it up the next day, even use wood if he had to. Maggie would never get used to this way of thinking. To her, the extra space was frightening. The cold air between her head and the ceiling felt precarious, as if nothing were holding the roof up and it would all come crashing down on her, crushing her as she slept. The warm, cramped air of her old home was more substantial. It could be trusted to keep the house upright.

She let out a sigh and looked at her work. She had cleaned the cuts, the bulk of the job, and then wrapped Jamie’s back with a cloth, tight enough to keep any dirt from getting in but loose enough so as not to hurt too much. She began to tell Jamie she was done but then realized that he had fallen asleep, no doubt aided by the whiskey and the setting sun. She pulled up the furs on his bed so that they covered him up to the waist and then exited, closing the door behind her gently.

She turned around and jumped at the sight of a shadowy figure sitting on a bench outside the door. As he stood up, his face was illuminated by the torches along the wall and Maggie recognized Dougal Mackenzie, the harshness of his face tempered slightly by a look of concern.

“Will he live?” he asked.

“Yes, sir. I’m sure of it.”

Dougal’s body visibly relaxed but his face remained stone.

“When will he be strong enough for us to tell him his father has died?”

“Oh God. Not now. Perhaps in a week.”

Dougal nodded. Maggie felt tears start to form in her eyes and hoped that Dougal wouldn’t notice. She would never wish the death of a father on anyone but she didn’t even know this young man. She cleared her throat.

“Sir, I should be getting back to Mr. Beaton.”

“No need. He died an hour ago.”

“Oh God,” Maggie repeated.

“Get some sleep,” Dougal said. “We’ll be needing you tomorrow.”


	2. Introductions

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Maggie and Jamie meet in slightly less unpleasant circumstances

Maggie sat rigidly in her chair, carefully watching Jamie, poised to wake him at any sign of movement. While her time with him last night—his vulnerability and, even more so, his back—was still grotesquely vivid, the intervening time between then and now was fuzzy.

After hearing of Mr. Beaton’s death she had walked numbly to his room, arriving just in time to see his body being taken away. She hadn’t known him well—in fact, she had only been at the castle a few days when he fell ill—but she still felt an immense sadness and even fear at his passing. To have interacted so closely with Mr. Beaton before his death made her feel guilty, like she had somehow cheated her way into a false intimacy and then, finding herself in such close proximity to his sweat and excrement and fear, let him down—let him die. She had nodded at the men carrying him out and then found herself in her cramped yet cold room where she cried for Mr. Beaton and her failure and, perhaps even more so, for Jamie and his father and whomever else he was leaving behind. She had stared up at the stone ceiling, her tears turning it into a gray and storming sea. At some point she must have fallen asleep, as she had woken with a deep sense of dread that morning and rushed, not entirely dressed, to Jamie’s room, sure she would find him dead—blead to death by too-tight bandages or killed by a fever from wounds she had not adequately cleaned. Instead, she had found him sleeping serenely and, regaining some rationality, had resolved to make herself decent and then return.

Now she watched him, her hands wrapped around a warm bowl of stew to give him when he awoke. Small pools of blood had seeped through his bandages and Maggie wanted to change them soon, before they began to stick to him. She couldn’t bring herself to wake him, though, to disrupt his respite from the scars, the death of his father, and whatever other tragedies he had waiting for him.

Jamie’s face was soft, his eyelids closed lightly and his lips slightly pursed. Maggie wondered how he could look so calm after all that had happened to him. Impulsively, she leaned forward to brush a stray red curl from his face but stopped short when Jamie began to move.

He opened his eyes slowly, looking puzzled but not frightened by his surroundings.

“Madainn mhath,” Maggie said. Good morning.

“Madainn mhath,” Jamie repeated. “Are you the girl from last night?”

“I am.”

“Then thank you.”

He looked at her, asking for an explanation for her presence in his room.

“Right,” Maggie said. “So, I’m here to help you again I suppose. I’d like to change those bandages soon but I didn’t want to wake you so I just waited. I didn’t mean to be watching you or anything of the sort. Sorry.”

“No, it’s all right. I appreciate it.”

“Right. You should eat.” Maggie held the stew out to him, thrusting it a little too hard and close to his face.

Jamie struggled to sit up, flinching with each movement. He took the bowl, though, and began to eat with the speed and vigor of a completely healthy man.

“Thank you,” he said between bites.

Maggie’s stomach rumbled loudly.

“Have you eaten yet?” Jamie stopped and handed the bowl back to her.

Maggie shook her head. “But this is for you.”

“I’m fine,” Jamie said. “I’ve already had most of it. Should have asked you before I started wolfing it down. Sorry for that.”

When Maggie shook her head again, he said, “Go on. You’re scrawny enough already.”

“I suppose I am.”

Maggie looked down at her nearly concave stomach. Throughout childhood and adolescence, she had been naturally plump and strong, a fact that she had always taken great pride in. If her body was not the most desired, it was at least the most useful. The last two years, however, had been characterized more by hungry nights and itinerant days than big meals and good work.

“You can’t wait for food to be offered around here, you know. I don’t know what it was like where you grew up but here everyone’s too busy to be worrying about whether you’ve eaten or—”

“It was the same back home,” Maggie interrupted.

“I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have suggested anything. I can see you know how to take care of yourself without any help from me.” Jamie smiled. “I, on the other hand, am in your debt.”

“It’s all right. It’s just that I’m new here and I don’t want to upset anyone or take more than my fair share.”

“I’m sure no one would fault you for having a little breakfast,” Jamie said. “Perhaps you can get yourself some more when you’re done with me.”

“Perhaps.”

Maggie looked down at the bowl she had emptied in four bites.

“Well, I suppose I should see to those then.” Maggie gestured toward Jamie’s back before reaching for the clean cloth, bandages, and water basin she had stowed by the window earlier that morning.

“How does it look?” Jamie asked.

Maggie wasn’t sure what to say. His back looked better than last night, cleaner and less black, but the skin was still raw and blood still trickled out of deep gashes.

“It will take some time to heal,” she said, “and then we’ll see. Does it hurt much?”

“To be honest, it does, yes.”

“This part’s going to be even worse,” Maggie said as she gently dabbed his cuts with a cloth, cleaning up any blood that congealed overnight. “I’m so sorry. It’ll be over soon.”

Jamie let out a small yell and made his hands into fists.

“I apologize for last night,” he said through gritted teeth, “For becoming emotional.”

“No, it’s understandable.”

“When you asked about my home,” Jamie said, “Well, I don’t think I’ll be seeing it again for some time so it was difficult.”

“Why not?” Maggie asked. “Or, you don’t need to tell me. I don’t mean to pry.”

“As we were leaving Fort William two nights ago, a soldier was shot, not by me, but I heard them yelling after me like I’d done it. My uncle said it would be best if I stayed here for a while, that I’d be putting my family in danger if I went home. He told me there’s a price on my head—for killing the man I didn’t kill—and I can’t imagine that going away any time soon.”

“That’s horrible, Jamie. I’m so sorry.”

Jamie looked surprised to hear her use his name. He grabbed her hand suddenly as she finished tying up the last bandage, then dropped it just as quickly.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “I can’t remember your name.”

Maggie moved back to the chair, still feeling the warmth of his hand against hers.

“Mairead, or Maggie is what people back home call me.”

“In Ireland?”

“Yes.”

“How long have you been here, Maggie?”

“A little over a year.”

“Can I ask why?”

“I told you about my house last night. I don’t know if you remember that.”

“It smells like peat,” Jamie said.

“Yes. It did. But we lost it to the red coats. They burned it down, they took our animals, and there was nowhere else to go. I came to Scotland because I heard things were better here—more food. And I heard they had to treat you better because you’re British citizens.” Maggie paused. “I see now I might have been wrong.”

“And your parents didn’t come with you over here?”

“No.” Maggie stood up. “I should probably be going. I’m sure Mrs. Fitz has things for me to do.”

“Of course. And make sure to eat some more,” Jamie said.

Maggie smiled. “I will.”

“Pleasure to meet you, Maggie.”

Maggie nodded sheepishly before closing the door behind her, her heart beating faster than it ought to have been. It must have been the left over rush of exhilaration at finding him alive that morning, at realizing she had not failed him as well.

She walked the long passageways to the kitchen feeling a strange mix of anxiety and excitement. She was greeted in the kitchen by the smell and warmth of cooking. She helped herself to a large bowl of stew and sat in the corner eating it slowly, cherishing every bite.

As the morning progressed, more and more women entered the kitchen, adding a tremendous noisiness to a room already saturated with hot aromas. Women gathered along the outskirts of the room, rolling out dough, tending to small fires and pots, chopping vegetables and meats. In the middle stood Mrs. Fitz, the clear yet often uncredited center of all life at the castle, somehow managing to stir a large stew pot with one hand while beating dough with the other and calling out orders and jokes to the women around her.

When Maggie had arrived at the castle promising to work any job they gave her in exchange for food and shelter, Mrs. Fitz had taken her in without hesitation, saying she was sure they could use an extra pair of hands. It quickly became apparent that this was a lie. The castle staff worked together seamlessly and efficiently, leaving very little for Maggie to do. Mrs. Fitz had clearly accepted her as a charity case but Maggie was far beyond caring about something like that. By the time she made it to the castle, Maggie had been on her own for over a year, drifting from tavern to tavern, sweeping floors and taking care of chickens in exchange for some broth and bread. Sometimes she had gone days without eating and frequently weeks would pass without Maggie ever sleeping indoors. She was immensely grateful to Mrs. Fitz but her gratitude was not tempered by guilt or upset pride. Pride was a triviality that no longer held any importance in her life. Mr. Beaton’s illness had provided her with work but now she was back to wondering the halls, looking for ways to be helpful but mostly just staying out of everyone’s way. She didn’t like being so idle but she much preferred it to the uncertainty—and often terror—of her previous life.

“Mrs. Fitz,” Maggie called out after finishing her second bowl of stew, “can I help in any way?”

Mrs. Fitz jumped a little. She clearly hadn’t seen Maggie until this moment. Maggie had become quite good at going unnoticed.

“Not at all, dear,” Mrs. Fitz responded. “You’ve already done so much for poor Mr. Beaton and our young Jamie. You deserve some rest.”

“Thank you, Mrs. Fitz.”

Maggie was quite tired. For the past week, she had hardly slept, not wanting to be away from Mr. Beaton for a moment.

Back in her windowless room, it was easy enough to pretend it was still nighttime. She lay on her bed, a faint smile forming. That felt inappropriate. Maggie’s hand shot up to cover her face, as if to hide her shameful happiness from God. A man had just died. Another lay injured in a room not far from her own. He had been brutalized and isolated from his family and, though he didn’t know it yet, he had lost a father as well. Maggie felt an overwhelming sympathy for him. But she was also intrigued by him. By his friendliness and the way he could speak so casually and even smile occasionally after being whipped so badly.

Maggie fell asleep picturing the tall young man’s face, reliving their brief conversation again and again. A smile crept back across her lips.

 

 


	3. Safety

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Maggie finds a home at Castle Leoch

Maggie opened her eyes slowly, feeling disoriented but not unpleasantly so. Living this far outside of time and space was a new and thrilling luxury. Maggie wandered the hallways, hoping to catch a scent from the kitchen, a potential sign of dinner. While she found breakfasts hard to navigate, unsure whether to help herself or not, Maggie enjoyed the daily evening feasts in the great hall. There, the whole castle gathered to eat, servants and family alike, all with a clear invitation.

Each meal included more food than Maggie had ever seen gathered together at once. Course after course of potatoes, venison, herring, pie, fruits and vegetables she didn’t recognize passed below her face. She sampled them all, often eating to the point of sickness. Each night, she reminded herself that it would all be there waiting for her the following night—and the night after that, and the night after that—but she never truly believed herself. She treated the meals as if they were her last, sure that such good fortune could not last much longer.

Until Mr. Beaton grew dangerously sick, Maggie’s entire schedule was dictated by these meals. She was consumed by them, looking forward to them all morning and all afternoon. During Beaton’s last few days, however, Maggie had turned her focus toward him and neglected food almost entirely. She was used to such deprivation and hardly noticed the pangs of hunger that hit her every evening. Although it made her ashamed to admit it, part of Maggie was looking forward to the opportunity to return to the great hall, an opportunity made available to her by Beaton’s death.

Another part of her—the stronger, more responsible part—told her she had another patient now. As the scent of herring, a staple of the evening meal, grew more and more noticeable, Maggie did not turn into the great hall but rather the kitchen. She made up a plate of herring, potatoes, and bread, filled a bowl with stew, and rushed back up the hall toward Jamie’s room.

At his door, she found Mrs. Fitz similarly armed with food.

“Is that for him?” Mrs. Fitz asked, pointing at Maggie’s hands.

“Yes.”

“What a sweet lass,” she said. “I’ll take care of him tonight. You go eat in the hall. Get yourself a real meal, I know you haven’t had a proper one in days. You’re all skin and bones.”

So I’ve been told, Maggie thought, surprised at the disappointment that was slowly creeping over her. She nodded and turned to go but Mrs. Fitz called after her.

“After dinner, the MacKenzie would like to see you.”

Maggie’s eyes widened. While she had seen him from a distance, she hadn’t met Colum MacKenzie yet and was hoping to keep it that way for as long as possible. Colum was small and sick in some way, his legs bowing outward as he walked. He always appeared to be in pain but, when Maggie looked closer, she could see determination—and perhaps anger—blending with the pain. She wondered how he would respond to a new and largely useless member of his staff. She nodded again and began to walk away before being called back again.

“And Maggie, do dress yourself before seeing him.”

Maggie looked down at her fully dressed form, trying to figure out what was missing.

“The corset,” Mrs. Fitz said. “You’re a bit… disordered, dear.”

She gestured awkwardly at Maggie’s breasts, then looked away and disappeared into Jamie’s room. Right, Maggie thought.

In most respects, Maggie had no need for a corset. She had no extra flesh to hem in, as everyone seemed so keen on reminding her. At home, she had only ever worn a corset to Sunday Mass and had always thrown it off herself within seconds of walking in her front door. She hated lacing it up, hated wearing it, and hated looking at herself in it. The inconvenience, discomfort, and artifice irritated her. Despite Maggie’s contempt, she had to admit that the corset did serve one useful purpose. It held her breasts in place, dissuading lecherous men from gazing for too long and allowing morally upright gentlemen to acknowledge her existence. Maggie sighed.

She entered the dining hall fully-corseted and considerably less excited than usual. She spotted Broden at the end of a table and worked her way over to him, still carrying her now lukewarm food.

“Hello, Broden,” she said.

“Evening, Mistress.”

“You can really call me Maggie.”

Broden shook his head. “My mother wouldna like that, Mistress.”

Maggie smiled. “I wanted to see how you were doing after, uh, what happened with Mr. Beaton.”

“I’m all right.”

“Good, good,” Maggie said. “Were you with him when he died?”

Broden nodded.

“I’m sorry you had to be alone with him.”

“I dinna mind, Mistress. I was glad to do it for him. I was with my grandfather when he died and this was similar. I think it made him feel better to have me there. My mother calls it ‘bearing witness.’”

“I like that,” Maggie said. “I like thinking of it that way.”

“Have you ever done that for someone?” Broden asked.

“No. I, uh, I saw someone from a distance.”

“Who?”

“It doesn’t matter.” Maggie looked away from Broden and stared at her plate. For once, she hadn’t even touched her food.

“Was it someone you loved?” Broden asked.

Maggie felt her throat constrict. She nodded.

“I’m sorry.” Broden looked at Maggie sadly. Then, seized by inspiration, he smiled and slid his plate toward her. “Here, have this.”

It was empty, except for one squishy, purple ball. Maggie didn’t have much of an appetite but Broden looked so pleased with his offering that she had to try it. She picked it up hesitantly and bit into it, causing some of its contents to explode out of the skin and shoot across the table at the crab apple man from the previous night. He glared at Maggie, his already drunkenly red face turning crimson. Broden laughed uproariously and Maggie couldn’t help but smile.

“I’m terribly sorry, sir,” she said. 

The man grunted at her, then turned to Broden, “Duin do ghob.” _Shut your mouth_.

When Broden did not shut his mouth, the man sighed deeply, downed his beer in one gulp, and left the table.

“Have you never had a stewed plum before, Mistress?” Broden asked, still laughing.

“A what?”

“A stewed plum.”

“I’ve never had a plum at all,” said Maggie.

“No.” Broden looked scandalized.

“Yes,” Maggie said. “It’s the sweetest thing I’ve ever tasted.”

“You’re from Ireland, yes?”

Maggie nodded.

“And you don’t have plums there?”

“We don’t.”

“It sounds like a sad place, if you don’t mind me saying it.”

Maggie laughed. “I do mind a bit but you may be right.”

Broden smiled like he had just gotten away with something, which, if his mother was strict enough to make him call Maggie, of all people, “Mistress,” he had.

“Who was that man?” Maggie asked.

“The little guy?” asked Broden, who at eight was well below four feet and was clearly finding insolence toward adults to be a thrilling new concept.

“I suppose he’s a bit short,” Maggie conceded.

“That’s Angus Mhor. You’ve made a lifelong enemy but it’ll be fine because he doesn’t usually fight women.”

“That’s comforting,” said Maggie.

“I have to go home, Mistress. Don’t tell my mother about this, all right?”

“I would never.”

 

That night, Maggie walked to Colum’s study, buoyed by her interaction with Broden but still frightened. What would he hate about her more? The fact that she served very little purpose at the castle or that when she _had_ tried her hand at something she had failed miserably and let his healer die? She wondered if she’d prefer being thrown out or thrown in the dungeon. With the latter, she’d at least receive some food every once in a while. It seemed too extreme a punishment, though. She felt fairly sure Colum would opt for simple banishment. She was less sure that was truly preferable.

She knocked on his door so shakily she wasn’t sure he had heard her. After waiting for at least a minute, she knocked again more vigorously.

“Come in then!”

Maggie entered slowly, surveying the room. The walls were lined with books, totaling at least a hundred. Maggie had read three books in her entire life. Her mother had owned a book on early Irish history and two Bibles, one in Latin and one in Gaelic. When Maggie was bored growing up—a rare occasion with all the work to be done—she used to read the Bibles, side by side, looking for differences and pointing out potential mistranslations to her mother. Her father, who could not read either language, described this practice as “a woman questioning the men of God.” It was meant as a criticism but Maggie had never taken it as such.

For a few moments, Maggie stood numbly in the doorway, amazed at the riches around her. In addition to the books, the room contained a beautiful rug, a tapestry, a huge desk, and, most amazingly of all, a bright yellow bird in a cage. Pulling herself back to reality, Maggie hurried over to Colum, seated behind his desk, and attempted a curtsy. She was unaccustomed to the corset’s imposed limits on upper body movement and realized too late that she had leaned too far forward, without the ability to correct in time. She fell into the desk, hard, then shot back up to try again.

“Stop that,” Colum said impatiently.

“Pardon me, sir.”

“Mrs. Fitz told me what you did for our Jamie. I appreciate it. Greatly.”

“It was nothing, sir.”

“Nonsense. The lad’s family. My sister’s son and it does mean a great deal to me.”

The family connection, as well as Colum’s apparent concern and affection, surprised her. She couldn’t see how the friendly young man she had spoken to that morning could be related to either Colum or Dougal, each surly and frightening in his own unique way.

“I also know about Mr. Beaton.”

Maggie looked at her feet.

“I hear you were very devoted in your care. Did all you could.”

“Sir? You’re not displeased?”

“Of course I’m displeased,” Colum said. “But not with you. I don’t expect you to be able to cheat death.”

 “Thank you, sir.”

“How old are you, girl?”

“Eighteen.”

“And how long have you been on your own?”

“Two years.”

“Then you’re not likely to be wanting to leave us anytime soon.”

“Sir,” Maggie said. “If you’d be willing to give me a position here, I’d be most grateful.”

“You can keep your gratitude. I need your work. We’re without a healer now and I expect you’ll do for the time being.”

“Thank you, sir. I’m most—” 

“Grateful, I know,” Colum interrupted. “You can help Mrs. Fitz as well, whenever she needs it.”

“Of course, sir.”

“You may go now.”

“Yes, sir. Thank you, sir.”

Maggie strode through the door then caught herself and turned back to curtsy, leaning against the wall in order to keep from falling again.

Walking to her room, Maggie realized this was the happiest she had been since leaving home. Two years without the so-called “basic” necessities of food and shelter had made her realize they weren’t so basic after all. They were something to be celebrated and it seemed she’d have plenty to celebrate for some time.


	4. Trust

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Maggie and Jamie continue to get to know one another as Jamie recovers from his flogging

When Maggie arrived at Jamie’s door the next morning, she found him sitting up in bed talking with one of the men from the night before. As soon as he saw her, the man, who had been speaking in Gaelic, switched to English and began to speak more quietly and—it seemed to Maggie at least—more rapidly.

“I can come back later,” Maggie said.

Jamie looked up at her as if he was just noticing her. “No, come in, come in. Murtagh was just leaving.”

“Hmmm.” The man let out a sharp burst of air and gave Maggie a look that reminded her of a wild boar she had been unlucky enough to encounter a few months ago. She had climbed a tree to escape the boar but with this man she just pressed herself against the door as he passed. “You think about what I said, Jamie,” he turned to say before leaving.

Jamie nodded impatiently.

“Come in,” he repeated.

Maggie walked over hesitantly and sat down in the chair the other man had just vacated.

“Have you eaten?” she asked.

“No. Thank you.”

Maggie handed him one of the steaming bowls she had brought up with her.

“I see you got yourself some this time,” Jamie said.

“Yes. I’m learning.”

“Sorry about Murtagh. He’s not too friendly to strangers but once you get to know him, he actually stays about the same.” Jamie laughed. “He means well, though.”

“It’s not a problem.”

“Maggie, do you not speak English?”

Maggie shook her head and stared at her lap. She hadn’t expected everyone at the castle to be so educated and she was starting to feel embarrassed at how short she came up in comparison.

“I don’t mean to embarrass you,” Jamie said quickly. “I just wondered when Murtagh switched to English. He’s not very trusting either, you see.”

“What did he want you to think about?” Maggie asked before realizing she was prying.

Jamie didn’t seem to mind.

“He doesn’t think we’re safe here, what with the price on my head and all. Do you think it’s safe?”

“I couldn’t say. I haven’t been here for very long.”

“But what’s your instinct?” Jamie asked. “I trust your judgement.”

“Why?”

She had asked too aggressively. Jamie looked taken aback. Maggie avoided his gaze and stared into her lap again but looked up when she heard him laugh.

“Should I not?” he asked.

“No. I—it’s more that we don’t know each other very well yet.”

“I suppose not. But I trust you all the same. Now, what do you think, Maggie? Are we safe here?”

For a moment, Maggie wasn’t sure if Jamie meant himself and Murtagh or himself and her. Then she realized she was being ridiculous. Of course he was speaking of Murtagh and himself. There was no “we” when it came to her and this strange young man.

“This is the safest I’ve felt in a long time,” Maggie said quietly.

Jamie looked at her sympathetically, as if he knew what she was talking about—which of course he did not. In other circumstances, this look would have angered Maggie. She would have interpreted it as pity, which was all well and good if it got her a place to sleep or a meal to eat but not something she really had time for if it didn’t come with some sort of material award. She’d appealed to pity many times in the two years she’d been on her own, including when she arrived at the castle, but each time she felt like she was giving away another small part of herself. Sometimes she worried that by the time she was done with this life, there would be nothing left of her. Nothing left to go to Heaven or Hell or wherever she was destined.

There was something different with Jamie, though. She didn’t feel pitied. She felt understood—as unlikely as that was. Perhaps it was because she had been the one to help him and not the other way around. Or perhaps it went deeper than that. Whatever the reason, something about Jamie calmed her. She was not quite at ease but closer than she had been in years.

She realized they had been staring at each other for an uncomfortably long time and stood up quickly.

“Right. So, I should change your bandages again,” she said, pulling out several strips of cloth she had tucked into the waist of her skirt.

Jamie sighed, then nodded. He handed her his empty bowl and gingerly transitioned from his seated position to lie face-down on the bed.

He pulled away from her involuntarily as she carefully took the first bandage off.

“Sorry,” he said.

“It’s all right.”

“I keep expecting this to hurt less but it doesn’t seem to.”

“It will,” Maggie said. “I promise.”

His back was still marked by deep red gashes, crisscrossing to form a grotesque patchwork. Nonetheless, Maggie was pleased to see more red and less black. She sighed as well and began to clean each cut.

Jamie’s breathing grew more labored. In an attempt to distract him, she asked, “So, does everyone in Scotland speak English?”

“Certainly not,” Jamie said. “Many at the castle do, though. I came here when I was sixteen, thought I’d impress them with my English and everyone my age already knew it. It was quite a disappointment.” He paused. “Do I impress _you_?”

“With your English? No.”

“No?”

“I’m not impressed by anything English.”

“Don’t you think it’s a helpful thing to know?”

“My mother spoke English,” Maggie said. “She was from a good, old family. Wealthy, educated. They all knew it and it didn’t help any of them. It didn’t help any of the old Catholic families. They were all wiped out, English or no.”

“Maggie, I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be,” Maggie said, feeling guilty for steering the conversation in this direction when Jamie was in such discomfort already. “I do know some phrases actually.”

She had finished cleaning his wounds and was now re-bandaging them.

“What phrases?” he asked.

“Well, when they say ‘Get out you dogs!’ you have to leave your house and follow them and when they call you a ‘Bloody Bitch’ it means you should probably try to look a bit meeker.”

Jamie made a sound somewhere between a gulp and a laugh. She continued.

“I also know blowen and bastard and uh, ‘son of an Irish hoor-er,’ I think.”

Jamie cleared his throat. “That last word’s a little different. It’s pronounced a little differently, uh… actually it doesn’t matter how it’s pronounced. Those aren’t words you should be saying.”

“Why not? They were said _to_ me.”

“They’re not appropriate for a young woman to say.”

“They’re not?” Maggie asked. “Oh, dear. I’d been repeating them to Father Craig back home so he could hear all the helpful English I was learning. I suppose that was a bad idea, then. If only I’d have known that the English, of all people, would say such disrespectful things to me and my family.”

As soon as Maggie finished her work on his back, Jamie flipped around and sat up. He stared at her, utterly scandalized. Unable to help herself any longer, Maggie laughed slightly.

“I’m sorry,” she said. “I’ve been teasing you. I know those words are a bit vulgar.”

“They’re more than a _bit_ vulgar,” Jamie said. “I’m starting to question your trustworthiness.”

“Yes but I imagine you were considerably less aware of how much your back hurt.”

“I suppose.”

“See, I’m clever.”

“Devious more like.”

“Perhaps,” Maggie said. “Should I leave or are you fine with spending a bit more time in the presence of such a devious, vulgar young woman?”

“I think I could manage that.”

For the second time that morning, they looked at each other a little too long, smiling this time. Despite the smile, Jamie looked tired. Maggie had been amazed at his apparent recovery, or more his general behavior—his ability to sit up and talk like nothing had happened, his immense appetite—but his actual injuries were still far from healed. While his back looked better, it was only in comparison to the horrifying image Maggie had seen just two nights ago. His skin was so raw and puckered it looked as if it weren’t even attached to the rest of his flesh, some of it barely was. Maggie had never seen human skin look like that before and, as she worked on him, she often found herself pretending it was not human skin, was not a part of him. It made the job easier. Bearable.

Looking at Jamie more closely, Maggie could see small beads of sweat forming on his temples.

“Do you have a fever?”

“Probably a small one,” Jamie said, deflating slightly. Now that his sickness was acknowledged he had no reason to pretend and Maggie was finally noticing how pale and sunken he looked.

She leaned forward and placed a hand on his hot forehead. “You should rest.”

“I’m fine,” he said, a tired but genuine smile forming. “I’d like to give you the opportunity to entertain me with vulgarities a little longer.”

“How kind of you,” Maggie said. “Can I ask, who is Murtagh to you? He seems somewhat, uh, separate from the others.”

Jamie nodded. “He’s not a MacKenzie, is the main thing. Neither am I actually—Dougal and Colum are my mother’s brothers. And Murtagh is my godfather. Makes him a bit protective, especially around strangers.”

“Like me.”

“Like you.” Jamie paused. “He doesn’t realize I’ve told you everything already.”

Maggie felt herself blushing but hoped it wasn’t too visible.

“You can assure him I’m not dangerous,” she said.

“I’m sure you’re far more dangerous than most people know.” It sounded like a joke but Jamie looked serious.

“Excuse me?”

“I just wouldn’t underestimate you is what I’m saying.”

Maggie smiled. “I guess I appreciate that.” Then, struck by a sudden urge, she added, “Would you teach me English? Not right now of course. Just, some time. We could do lessons, like. I’ve been thinking I should probably learn it—for convenience.”

“Of course. I’d be happy to.”

“I do actually know some real phrases too,” Maggie said. “Like, hello, thank you, good morning.”

“The pleasantries.”

“Pleasantries and curse words are all you need to converse with the English. They pride themselves on being a particularly pleasant brand of tyrants, don’t they?”

“Aye.” Jamie grimaced.

There was nothing pleasant about Jamie’s back but Maggie imagined the punishment had been meted out in strict accordance with the law. The English inflicted terror through the appropriate channels.

Again, she chastised herself for alluding to such painful subjects.

“My mother always wanted to teach me English,” she continued quickly, “And she did teach me a bit but my father never learned it and he didn’t really like me learning it either. He didn’t like the English—with good reason, of course—and I know he thought he was doing me a favor but I sometimes think he left me at a bit of a disadvantage.”

“We’ll get to work soon, then,” Jamie said.

“Thank you. Now, you should sleep a bit. I’ll leave you alone.”

As Maggie gathered their empty bowls and stood up to leave, there was a loud knock on the door. Dougal let himself in without waiting for an answer.

“I need to speak with Jamie,” he said. “Alone.”

“Of course. I was leaving anyway. But—”

Maggie looked back at Jamie. During their conversation, he had slowly slid from a seated position to an almost vertical one, propping himself up slightly on his elbows.

“I’ll be fine,” he said, nodding at her.

Maggie smiled at him slightly before closing the door behind her. She imagined that whatever news Dougal had couldn’t be good but she didn’t think he’d tell Jamie about his father. She felt guilty. Guilty that she knew something so personal about Jamie before he did but she didn’t think he was ready to hear it yet. He’d need the genial strength he had thus far displayed in order to recover. News of his father’s death would surely sap him of that.

Even if Dougal was simply there to converse with Jamie, she couldn’t envision anyone gaining any comfort from a chat with this imposing, gratuitously unfriendly man. She frowned, worrying that Jamie might never get a chance to rest.

That night, when Maggie went to bring Jamie his dinner, she heard terrified, raspy screaming. Already walking briskly, she broke into a run, arriving at Jamie’s door at the same time as Murtagh. They looked at each other briefly. Murtagh frowned and raised his bushy eyebrows as if daring her to walk through that door before him. He opened his mouth to speak but Maggie turned away from him, pushed the door open, and walked into the room to find Jamie lying on his back drenched in sweat.

As she approached him, his eyes shot open.

“It’s not safe here. We need to leave!”

“Jamie?”

“He’s come back for me and he’s taken my sister. He’ll take you too. You need to go!”

“Jamie.” He flinched as she touched his arm. “Jamie, I think you were dreaming. You’re safe here.” She paused. “I am too”

“You don’t know that,” he said.

“I do. At least for tonight. I can’t say what will happen later but for tonight you’re safe. I promise.”

Jamie sighed and closed his eyes. When he opened them again, he was looking past Maggie at Murtagh.

“Where’s Jenny?” he asked in Gaelic.

Murtagh responded in English which Maggie resented until she realized how much whatever he was saying was calming Jamie. Murtagh pulled out a flask of whiskey or something of its ilk—not water, Maggie was sure of that—and offered it to Jamie. Jamie sat up slightly, revealing bright red bandages. He must have irritated his wounds when he rolled onto his back.

Maggie waited until Jamie was done drinking and then said, “I’m going to have to change those bandages.”

“Sorry,” Jamie murmured.

“Oh no, please, it’s not a problem. I’ll just go fetch some cloth and be right back.”

Maggie ran to her room, where she had taken to keeping a roll of bandages ever since Jamie’s arrival. When she returned to Jamie’s room, she heard him and Murtagh speaking in low voices.

“Try not to think of it,” Murtagh said. Seeing Maggie waiting in the doorway, he stood up to leave. “Right. I’ll be just outside then.”

“Thank you,” Maggie said quietly as he passed by her.

He looked surprised by this and she herself wondered what exactly she was thanking him for—certainly not his friendliness. Perhaps it was the way he interacted with Jamie, far more gently than she would have expected from looking at him.

She walked over to Jamie and put a hand to his forehead absent-mindedly. We was hot to the touch but he seemed to be calming down.

“I’m terribly embarrassed,” he said.

“Please, don’t be. You’ve been through—” she paused. “Well, a lot has happened recently.”

“Aye.”

“And you have a fever. That would give anyone nasty dreams.”

When the re-bandaging was over, Jamie lay down on his stomach groaning.

“Do you feel able to eat anything?” Maggie asked.

He shook his head.

“Ok, try to sleep.”

His voice stopped her at the door.

“Where are you going?”

“I’m just going to speak to Murtagh.”

“Can you come back when you’re done?”

“Of course,” she said. “Do you need anything?”

“No, but I’d like—could you stay with me?”

“Oh.” Maggie had to think about the propriety of this for a moment. “Yes, of course. I’ll be right back.”

Murtagh was pacing back and forth in the hallway.

“Will he be all right?” he asked.

“Yes, I think so.”

This time it was Murtagh’s turn to say thank you. It was a gruff thank you, barely making it past his prickly reddish-brown mustache, but a thank you nonetheless.

“Is Jenny his sister?” Maggie asked. As soon as she said it, she was surprised by her boldness around a man who, as a rule, spoke a language she couldn’t understand whenever she entered a room.

Even more surprisingly, Murtagh answered her without protest.

“Yes.”

“And did someone take her?”

“Not like he was thinking just then but, yes, he took her. Had his way with her.” Murtagh spit on the floor.

“Oh God,” Maggie said. “I’m sorry. That’s horrible. Who was it?”

“Black Jack Randall, the same man who flogged him.” Murtagh continued, maintaining careful and intense eye contact, “You seem like a nice lass but you should know I’ll kill anyone—man or woman—who tells Randall of Jamie’s whereabouts. You ken?”

“Yes, of course. I would never.”

Murtagh nodded.

Maggie began to retreat back into Jamie’s room. “You can go to bed if you’d like. He should be fine for tonight.”

Murtagh’s eyes widened. “Are you going to stay with him alone in his bed chamber? All night?”

“Yes.”

Maggie closed the door and sat down in a chair next to Jamie’s bed, gazing at his already sleeping but still disturbed face.


	5. Not Alone

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Maggie and Jamie reveal their pasts to one another

Jamie was feverish for the next two days, passing in and out of sleep, rarely awake long enough to eat or drink anything, so Maggie was surprised when she entered his room on the third morning and found him standing up, looking out the room’s single window.

She walked toward him slowly, not wanting to disturb him but also eager to offer food and water. At an arm’s length away, she stopped. While Jamie had not turned around, a tensing of his shoulders and arms indicated that he had sensed her presence. She took a step closer and gently touched his arm.

“Jamie?”

He turned to her and nodded but quickly turned back to the window, moving over slightly to make room for her to stand next to him. The sky was grey and the usually vibrant grass had turned a muted yellow-brown hue. It was still the early days of winter and they had yet to experience any snow but the castle’s surroundings seemed to be preparing themselves in advance, letting their colors leach out.

Maggie stared at this uninspiring picture for several minutes, unsure of what to say next—or whether to say anything. Finally, Jamie broke the silence.

“My father died two weeks ago.”

Maggie inhaled sharply. She wondered who had told him and why they had chosen this moment. She hoped it had been Murtagh and not Dougal or Colum.

“I’m so sorry.”

“He died two weeks ago and they’re just getting around to telling me now,” Jamie said, staring determinedly out the window.

Maggie glanced at him quickly. His eyes were red and watery and she could see the tracks of earlier tears on his cheeks.

“Perhaps,” she began weakly, “perhaps they wanted to wait until you were more recovered. Maybe they thought you weren’t ready to hear it.”

“Shouldn’t that be my decision?” Jamie said, his jaw clenched.

“I suppose. When I spoke to Dougal about—”

Now Jamie turned to look at her.

“You’ve been talking to Dougal about me?”

“No, it’s not—”

“Have you enjoyed discussing my private affairs?”

Maggie’s face grew hot. She opened her mouth to speak but nothing came out. Jamie didn’t wait for an answer. He turned his back to her and began the short walk back to his bed. After a few steps, he stumbled and almost fell. Maggie rushed over and grabbed a hold of his arm to steady him. When they reached the bed, she sat down next to him and handed him the tankard of water she had brought with her.

“Drink.”

She watched him take a few sips, then asked, “Can you handle some food?”

Jamie shook his head.

“Would you like me to leave?”

“No. I’m sorry I was cross with you. You don’t deserve it.”

“There’s no need to be sorry. I understand. And I’m sorry too. Dougal asked me, when you first arrived, if you were strong enough to hear it. I said no.”

“No,” Jamie almost whispered. “You were probably right.”

He brought his hands to his face and held them there for a while. Then he drew them away and sighed deeply.

“It’s my fault,” he said.

“Oh, Jamie, that can’t be true.”

“Dougal told me he passed out as he watched…” Jamie paused, “As he watched what happened. It was seeing me flogged that killed him.”

“But that’s not your fault.”

“It is. I angered Randall. He offered me a way out and I refused.”

“What did he offer you?”

Jamie shook his head and stared at his knees.

“I best not say. It was not an attractive offer, or at least it didn’t seem it at the time. Had I known, though, had I known the alternative, I would have accepted it.”

“But you didn’t know,” Maggie said. “You couldn’t have known.”

“I’m so selfish,” Jamie continued. “And now my sister’s on her own too.”

“But you’ll get back to her someday,” Maggie said.

“I hope so.”

Jamie’s hands now lay at his sides, gripping the bed’s top blanket. Maggie reached out and tentatively placed one of her hands on top of his. She felt it tighten even further for a moment then relax. They sat there in silence, not looking at each other but connected by the warmth radiating from one hand to the other. 

“It makes me miss my mother,” Jamie said eventually. “Is that a stupid thing to say?”

“No. I understand what you mean.”

“She died a long time ago, I suppose about eleven years ago, but as soon as they told me about my father, all I could think to do was to go find my mother—to have her comfort me and to comfort her too. I don’t know why. I guess I didn’t want to believe that I was really all alone.”

Maggie squeezed his hand.

“I’m so sorry,” she said. “I know the feeling.”

Jamie turned to look at her.

“Are your parents living, Maggie?”

“No.” She bowed her head. “They were killed by the English—or my father was at least. My mother was too, in a way. She was… well, you probably don’t want to hear this.”

“No,” Jamie said. “Go on. If you want to.”

“She was held in one of their jails. I don’t think they meant to kill her but there was an illness spreading through the jail and she caught it. They wouldn’t even give me her body to bury her.” Maggie pulled her hand away from Jamie’s to fiddle with a small tear she had just noticed in her dress. Focusing on the tear, she continued. “My father was involved in… politics, you could say.” Maggie paused. “Actually, it was more like banditry. He generally worked to make life a little more difficult for the landlords, stealing their cattle, robbing their stores of grain, that sort of thing. It was just occasional raids with some of our neighbors, nothing big, and the English mostly left us alone for a long while. But someone must have informed on us because one day word arrived that the Redcoats were coming to arrest him and he had to flee. He didn’t want to leave us, he really didn’t, but my mother convinced him to go. She didn’t think they’d do anything to her. But they did.”

Maggie’s tone was flat. She knew if she let any emotion creep into this retelling she might start crying and never stop. So she told Jamie about the Redcoats taking her mother away, yelling words at her that she couldn’t understand, and burning down her house as if she were describing the weather. She told him how she thought the English had taken her mother in order to lure her father back and how she hadn’t known whether to find him to tell him or not, hadn’t known which parent to choose, knowing that her father would return at once—to a death sentence by hanging—if he knew what had happened. She had not been able to find him, though, and so she had instead sought shelter at the parish rectory, waiting impotently for something to happen, hardly saying a word to her concerned priest. Eventually, her father did learn of her mother’s fate and returned to find that his wife had died days earlier. He was immediately arrested and sentenced to hang the following day. They let her speak to her father one last time, an opportunity she had not been afforded with her mother. He had begged her to not to come to the hanging and she had tried to obey him but had not been able to. As much as she _wanted_ to avoid the sight, she _needed_ to see it, needed to “bear witness” as Broden’s mother would say. She had climbed up on a hill just high enough to see over the prison walls and had laid down on her stomach, not wanting to subject her father to the knowledge she had seen him die. He had not gone quietly. She watched him kick his guard and try to run away before being subdued by three soldiers. He had yelled but she had not been able to hear what he was saying. He was still yelling when they placed the sack over his head and perhaps even still yelling as the door he was standing on dropped out from beneath him. Maggie was too far away to hear.

“It looked so loud,” she said to Jamie.

She was shaking now, violently. The shaking turned to sobs and she curled her body in on itself, trying to hide from Jamie.

“I’m sorry,” she said. “I don’t know why I’m crying. It happened so long ago. Two years.”

“That’s not that long.”

Maggie stood up suddenly.

“I’m so sorry,” she said. “This can’t be helpful to you.”

When Jamie looked up at her, his eyes were gentle but sad.

“It’s all right.”

“I should go,” she said. “I have to go. I’m so sorry for doing this.”

She began to walk toward the door but Jamie stopped her.

“No.” He stood up with effort, walked toward her, and slowly placed his arms around her.

“I’m so sorry,” Maggie repeated.

Jamie said nothing but she could feel his head shake “no” on top of hers as she leaned into his chest. She let herself go, crying for her mother, her father, herself, for Jamie’s father and sister, for him. She cried like she hadn’t cried since the night of her father’s death, when she had returned to her burnt-out former home and curled up in the corner where her parents’ bed used to be as the rain beat down on her through the exposed rafters.

After several minutes, Maggie gently pushed Jamie back, took his hand, and led him to the bed where they sat down, still holding hands. He was crying slightly now too and she wanted to touch his face and wipe his tears but didn’t. Instead, she looked at him and smiled sadly.

“Thank you,” she said. She paused, then added, “Tell me something about your father, something that makes you happy.”

“Something happy?”

“Something that makes you happy.”

“All right,” Jamie said. “Well, when my sister and I were little we were always fighting and one day we were arguing about something or other—I can’t remember—and it turned into a bit of a wrestling match. You’d hardly believe it if you saw us now but she was bigger than me back then—she’s two years older—and she was always beating me but, this time, I got the better of her. I don’t really know how but I must have distracted her in some way and while she was looking the other way, I pushed her in this pond by our house.” He laughed slightly. “And she was so mad. God, she would have killed me had my father not shown up at just the right time. He had seen everything and he pulled me off by my ear to have a word about how ‘we treat women in this household’—mind you, no one ever seemed to have a problem when she was beating on me. Anyway, my father sits me down and he tells me that I need to be gentle with girls because they’re more delicate and he’s going on and on about some flower comparison when my sister, Jenny, sneaks up behind me and throws a cow pie right at the back of my head.” Jamie leaned forward, acting out the sensation of the cow pie hitting him. “And it hurt. God. It was hard. And it smelled. And, as I’m picking this dung out of my hair, my father turns to me, trying to hide a laugh, and says, ‘That’s why you have to be gentle with other women. You have to be gentle with your sister because she’s spiteful.’”

He paused like a storyteller waiting for applause. Maggie smiled.

“I guess that’s more a story about my sister,” he said.

“She sounds great.”

“Oh, once you get to know her, she can be sweet.”

“I believe it. I wasn’t impugning her character. I meant it. She sounds great.”

“Because she threw a cow pie at my head?” Jamie cocked his head to the side, feigning incredulity.

“Sounds like you deserved it.”

“I thought I could count on you to be on my side.”

Maggie shook her head emphatically and smiled fully.

“Tell me more,” she said.

“Well, this may sound sad at first but one thing I’ll always remember about my father is how he was, right after our mother died. It was… difficult. I had nightmares about her most nights—about how she died—and I’d go over to Jenny’s room and crawl into bed with her. Neither of us wanted to be alone for any great length of time back then. I’d often wake up in the early morning to find my father there in the room too. He’d be asleep in a chair or even on the floor by the bed like he was watching over us, which I think he was. I remember thinking that, if he was watching over us like that, that maybe we’d be all right, just the three of us. I never woke him up. I always pretended to be asleep so he could wake up on his own and go back to his room thinking no one had noticed. I don’t know why.”

Jamie wiped at his eyes but looked far less distraught than before.

“Tell me about your family,” he said. “You had no siblings?”

“I think my parents always wanted more children but they weren’t able after me. My mother told me it was because I was so perfect, God decided no other child could measure up and he didn’t want to subject a child to all those unfavorable comparisons, which of course isn’t true.”

“You don’t know it’s not.”

“Yes, I do.”

“How?” Jamie asked. “How do you know?”

“Because,” Maggie said. “That’s just a thing you tell to small children to make them feel better about not having any brothers or sisters. Besides, no one’s perfect. Or I’m certainly not, as you’ll learn soon enough—I mean, if we both stay on here and keep… talking and such.”

“And I hope we will,” Jamie said. “Not that I expect to find anything much at fault with you.”

Maggie laughed. “Don’t be ridiculous. You’re just teasing me.”

“You can believe what you believe and I’ll believe what I believe.”

“Hmm, all right. I used to wonder actually if my father wouldn’t have rather had a boy, if he was only going to be allowed one child.”

“I’m sure he was happy with you,” Jamie said more seriously.

“Stop pretending you know so much about me, Jamie—what’s your surname then? It wouldn’t be MacKenzie I suppose.”

“Fraser.”

“Right. Stop pretending you know so much about me, Jamie Fraser. If you must know, though, you’re right. He was very happy with me. He used to say if he had three more of me we’d have the most successful farm in Donegal, which was also not true because the soil was so poor and we didn’t actually own the land but it was nice to hear nonetheless. He said I was stronger than most boys anyway and harder working than any of them. And that _was_ true—if you don’t mind me saying so.”

“I don’t.”

“Good.”

Jamie smiled at her. “What am I going to do when you leave?”

“I have no plans to leave anytime soon. I’ve just arrived myself.”

“No,” Jamie said. He looked down at the bed where their hands rested, joined together. His voice was soft and slow, from sadness or exhaustion or some combination. He had stopped smiling. “I mean when you leave this room. When it’s just me and my thoughts. I don’t know if I can face that.”

“I won’t leave then,” Maggie said.

They talked all morning and afternoon and evening, telling stories about their childhoods and families. Occasionally, Maggie would stand up to act out some particularly involving story, such as the time when an unclaimed pair of ill-tempered geese had settled down between her family’s land and their neighbor’s, terrorizing anyone who dared to challenge them, including Maggie, her father, her mother, and even their ordinarily imposing cow. When she was done, she would sit back down next to Jamie and lay her hand back down on top of his. She was even able to convince him to eat and did leave briefly in order to sneak some food out of the great hall and bring it up for both of them.

Jamie told her about his brother, William, who had died when Jamie was only six, and about his best friend Ian, who featured almost as prominently in his stories as Jenny. He told her how his parents first met at Castle Leoch, a story that had clearly been repeated many times as he was growing up.

Maggie talked about her mother and how smart she was and how much her family had lost to the British. She had been a member of the O’Donnell clan, which was stripped of almost all its power over a hundred years ago and had seen its fortunes dwindle even further throughout the years. By the time Maggie’s parents met, her mother’s family was living as poor tenant farmers, although they had retained the education and manners of nobility. Her father was actually better off than her mother’s family, having managed to rent land at a reasonable price and secure a cow and sheep. Nonetheless, her mother’s family had rejected him as uncouth and unworthy of their daughter.

“My mother’s family didn’t like my father at first either,” Jamie had said. “But they came around eventually. Did your mother’s?”

“No, they never did. I think it was hard for her but also good in a way, good to be free from the burden of all that sad history, all the grieving over what they had lost. With my father, she could start anew. And she loved him very much as well.”

“Did your father have much family?”

“No,” Maggie said. “They all died when he was young, so he was on his own from an early age but he was very resourceful… and I suppose a bit dishonest when it came to dealing with the landlords but I can’t fault him much there.”

“Were you ever lonely?” Jamie asked.

“Yes, I was. But I enjoyed talking to my parents and there was always work to be done so I was never bored. And I read books too. My mother owned three.”

As soon as she said it, Maggie felt stupid. Judging from the opulence of Colum’s library, his nephew likely grew up with more than three books to read. Where she came from, owning three books—and being able to read them too—was nothing to scoff at but she supposed that here it likely was. Jamie didn’t scoff, however.

“Your family probably had more books than that,” she said.

“Well, yes, we did.”

“And a tutor as well?”

“And a tutor,” Jamie said. “He was a funny little man from Edinburgh.”

 So, Jamie told her the story of his tutor, a man who insisted on wearing a white, powdered wig despite the fact that no one else in the Highlands wore such a fashion or even looked upon it favorably. They traded stories for hours until Maggie noticed Jamie’s eyelids closing slowly.

“You should sleep.”

“No, I’m all right. Sorry. Keep talking.”

Maggie shook her head. “No need to be sorry. You’ve been ill and, as the new castle healer, I insist that you sleep.”

Jamie smiled and nodded. As he lay down, Maggie placed her hand to his forehead. It was hot.

“I can stay with you if you want,” she said.

“I’ll be fine,” Jamie said. “But thank you. For everything.”

“Of course.”

Maggie turned to leave but stopped in the doorway, remembering what he had said earlier about being without his mother or father.

“Jamie, you’re not all alone.”


	6. In paradisum deducant te Angeli

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Maggie familiarizes herself with Mr. Beaton's stores and she and Jamie begin their English lessons

Maggie surveyed the shelves in front of her. Vials of various powders with names that meant nothing to her, like Fenugreek and Pillwort, a jar of frogs’ legs, even a cloth bag labeled “dung of stubborn cow.” The only items whose use was clear to her were the leeches housed in a murky basin, all of whom had died in the absence of Mr. Beaton. Behind her stood a table holding an assortment of knives and terrifying pincer-like tools. Maggie sighed, unsure what exactly she had agreed to when accepting Beaton’s old post. 

“Do you know how to use all of these?” a small voice asked from the doorway.

Maggie jumped, then relaxed when she turned to see Broden coming down the stairs.

“Sorry, Mistress. I dinna mean to frighten you.” Broden looked around the dark, cave-like room. “I can see how you’d be easily scared down here. It’s a bit creepy, isn’t it?”

“It is,” Maggie agreed. “And no, I don’t know how to use most of these.”

“I’m sure you’ll learn.” Broden shrugged. “So, are you going to sleep down here now?”

“No, I’m not. I mean, I certainly hope not.”

“Mr. Beaton slept down here,” Broden said.

“Really?”

Maggie had been exploring Beaton’s half-buried healing chamber for less than an hour and she was already gripped by a strong desire to leave the cold, musty room.

“Aye,” Broden said, walking over to the room’s lone window and pulling up a dark sheet that had been obscuring a small cot, apparently where Mr. Beaton had slept.

Broden felt around the bed as if searching for something, while Maggie stared down at her shoes. Rummaging through the belongings of a dead man didn’t feel right. When she looked up, she saw Broden standing in front of her dwarfed by a giant black cloak.

“Broden, take that off,” she said more sharply than she had meant to.

“I’m sorry, Mistress. I dinna—”

“No. It’s all right. I’m sorry, Broden. I didn’t mean to yell. It just seemed disrespectful to wear his clothes.”

“I’m sorry,” Broden repeated.

He took the cloak off and, instead of placing it back on the bed, handed it to Maggie, his head bowed. She accepted it slowly, reluctantly, then quickly placed it on the table behind her.

“I dinna mean to be disrespectful of Mr. Beaton, Mistress.”

“You weren’t, Broden. You didn’t do anything wrong. It just surprised me, is all. You were very good to Mr. Beaton at the end. I think it really helped that you were there with him.”

Broden smiled slightly.

“I thought his cloak might give me some powers,” he said. “Like healing or even flying.”

“Why would it give you powers?” Maggie asked.

“Because Mr. Beaton was a charmer.”

“Yes?”

“He used his magic to heal people. He could talk to the spirits and ask them to make people better. He used chants and such. I want to be able to do that. I guess you must already know how.”

“I don’t actually.”

Like all reasonable people she knew, Maggie had a healthy respect for the fairies but she drew the line at enchantments and incantations. She knew plenty of Irish and Scottish people who made no distinction between fairies and witches and goblins and just feared them all and she had heard of English people who grouped them together similarly, disregarding them all to their own detriment.

“I’m sure you’ll learn how to use your magic soon,” said Broden.

“Thank you,” Maggie said, “but I don’t think I have any magic.”

“Sure you do. You need to trust yourself more, Mistress. You’re a smart lady, you’ll figure it out.”

Maggie stifled a laugh.

“That’s very kind of you, Broden. What I mean is that I’m not sure I even believe—” She began but then thought better of it. There was no need to upset Broden’s worldview. “Actually, I think you’re right. I’ll just have to practice, won’t I?”

“And maybe try on the cloak,” Broden added, excitedly.

“Maybe. Not just now. Besides, if we don’t go up soon, we’ll miss dinner.”

Broden smiled, then ran up the stairs wildly, calling back to her from the top.

“Are you coming, Mistress?”

“You go on without me. I’ll be up in a moment.”

Maggie turned back to the table and looked at the cloak. Laying it out flat, she folded it carefully, then placed it under the pillow on Beaton’s old cot and pulled the sheet back up, smoothing out any wrinkles with the palm of her hand.

 

Two days later, Maggie rushed to Jamie’s room, eager to show him the progress she was making in her English.

In the weeks since hearing the news of his father’s death, Jamie had been growing progressively stronger, venturing outside of his room for short stretches of time but still eating most of his meals in the room with Maggie. He was likely well enough to eat in the great hall with everyone else but seemed nervous at the prospect of seeing so many people, of having to talk to them about what had happened to him or about his father or about anything really. He avoided conversation with everyone but Murtagh and Maggie.

For her part, Maggie had been trying to discern how much time alone Jamie wanted and had discovered that it was not much. Similarly, after the first few days, she realized that talking about Jamie’s father only seemed to make him sadder so she instead tried to distract him, telling him edited versions of her travels before arriving at Castle Leoch. She chose to omit the leering men and nights spent in barns, clutching her knife to her chest, ready for any that might decide to get too close and instead focused on the colorful characters who frequented the various pubs she had served at in exchange for food and shelter and sometimes even a bit of money. She talked about the passage from Donegal to Glencoe but didn’t mention her intense seasickness. She described the sight of the sun rising over Ben Nevis but did not explain that she had been sleeping outdoors and had only been able to witness the sunrise because of the bitter cold that woke her early in the morning. She spoke of the adventure but not the fear.

When Jamie was almost fully healed and Maggie had exhausted her store of pleasant memories, she asked if they could begin their English lessons. At first, she had been content to study in his chamber but she was beginning to fear that Jamie might never leave his room without proper encouragement. Today she was determined to hold their lesson outside and ready to argue her case.

Armed with a Gaelic to English dictionary and an English language Bible, both borrowed from Colum’s library, she practically ran through the door, barely unfastening the latch before ramming her body against the door’s hard wood. Knocking didn’t even occur to her.

Upon entering the room, she saw Murtagh and Jamie kneeling by the bed, their hands clasped in prayer.

“In paradisum deducant te Angeli…”

They both stopped and looked up at her. Murtagh’s dark eyes flashed with anger. The brightness of Jamie’s green eyes was magnified by shining tears.

“I’m so sorry,” Maggie said. “I’ll just—I’ll go.”

“No.” Jamie wiped his eyes quickly with the back of his hand. “If you could just wait outside perhaps. We’ll be done soon.”

Maggie nodded and shut the door. Outside the room, she leaned against the stone wall, feeling the coolness spread through her body. She touched the stones, then held her hand to her suddenly burning cheeks.

_In paradisum deducant te Angeli. May the angels lead you into paradise._

The beginning of the funeral prayer.

_May the martyrs receive you at your arrival and lead you to the holy city Jerusalem. May choirs of angels receive you…_

Jamie, unable to attend his father’s funeral, had been praying with Murtagh. Before she had interrupted. How presumptuous. How improper. To run into the room of a man she had known for all of three weeks and assume he would be ready and willing to receive her. She was so mortified she wanted to run back to her own bed chamber and never come out but something in the way Jamie had spoken to her held her in place. Despite her arrogance, her foolish, her impropriety, he really did sound as if he wanted to see her. After interrupting such an important moment, she couldn’t disappear to nurse her own embarrassment. She had to stay, she felt. For him.

Minutes that felt like hours passed as Maggie stood there, running her hands up and down the wall. _Et cum Lazaro quondam paupere æternam habeas requiem,_ she mouthed, completing the prayer. _And with Lazarus, once a poor man, may you have eternal rest._

Finally the door opened and Maggie heard Murtagh speaking in English, saying something about “a lass” and then other words she didn’t understand. Jamie responded, also in English, before gesturing for Murtagh to leave and saying in Gaelic, “Tapadh leat.” Thank you _._

“Would you like to come in?” Jamie peered around the door at Maggie.

Maggie entered slowly.

“Jamie, I’m so sorry!”

“It’s fine.”

“It’s not. That was private and I shouldn’t have—I feel terrible.”

“You couldn’t have known.”

“But I shouldn’t be barging into your room like that.”

“Aye.” Jamie smiled. “That’s what Murtagh said too. I have to say, I agree.”

“I’m really sorry.”

“But,” Jamie continued, “If that’s the only kind of entrance you know how to make, I’d much rather that than never get to enjoy your company at all.”

“I can make a quieter entrance.”

“Really?” Jamie smiled again but quickly wiped it away to feign seriousness. “Because I wouldn’t want to trouble you.” He paused, then added, as if the idea had just come to him, “Perhaps I could teach you, in addition to English, how to behave in polite society.”

Maggie scoffed.

“After all, you’re not in Ireland anymore,” Jamie said.

“You’re making me feel progressively less sorry.”

“Ah, good. That was my intention.”

Maggie laughed. “But I am sorry, Jamie. It won’t happen again.”

“Don’t fuss yourself,” Jamie said. “So, are you here for another English lesson?”

“Yes. If that’s all right.”

“Of course.” Jamie sat down on the bed, looking at her as if expecting her to join him.

Maggie stayed standing. Ever since Jamie had recovered from his fever, Maggie had felt strange about sitting next to him. Before, she had a reason to be there but now it made her uncomfortable to share such space with a man. No one could accuse her of truly “sharing a bed with a man” but to even be sitting on a bed with a man, sitting anywhere in a man’s room alone, seemed inappropriate. She wondered if this fast familiarity was what led her to forget herself earlier and let herself into Jamie’s room without any concern for what he might be doing or whether she should even be there in the first place.

“I was hoping we could go outside, actually,” Maggie said. “It’s nice out.”

Jamie’s eyes moved toward the window and the grey sky beyond it. “Is it?”

“Well, it’s not raining and if we wear our cloaks, we shouldn’t be too cold,” Maggie said. “I think it might be good.”

“For me?”

“Just in general.”

“Are you worried I’m becoming a hermit?” Jamie asked.

“A little.”

“Well, I wouldn’t want to worry you. Let’s go.”

At first, the frozen grass crunched under their feet but, as they walked beyond the shadow of the castle, out into the sunlight, the grass turned soft and wet. As they walked through a particularly wet area, the heel of Maggie’s got caught in the mud. She tripped, almost letting go of the books in her arms, and began to fall but before she could hit the ground, Jamie grabbed her arm, pulling her back up.

“Thank you,” Maggie muttered.

She felt strangely dizzy and let herself lean against Jamie for perhaps too long. Realizing this, she straightened up, her head bobbing slightly as the castle grounds came back into focus.

“Are you all right?” Jamie was still holding onto her arm.

She nodded. Ever since Mrs. Fitz’s comment about her “disordered” breasts, Maggie had been wearing her corset daily. She was still getting used to the restrictions it placed upon her movements and she had noticed a significant dip in her already limited gracefulness. She had gained weight since arriving at the castle and that morning, the corset had felt especially tight, no matter how much she loosened the laces. It seemed likely that the corset was now impeding her breathing as well. Maggie used to laugh at women who willingly hobbled themselves in order to look a certain way but now the prospect of appearing in front of anyone without the corset disturbed her. Her memories of tending to and visiting Jamie without wearing any sort of undergarment made her blush.

Gaining her bearings, she said, “I was actually just testing you.”

“Oh, really?”

“Yes. You seem quite recovered but I couldn’t be sure. I needed to test your reflexes and strength.”

“Ah, I see. You must have had a lot of faith in me to fling yourself at the ground with such abandon.”

“I did.”

“I’m honored,” Jamie said. “And, you were right about it being a beautiful day.”

He smiled at her mischievously. Droplets of water from the drizzle that had begun shortly after they stepped outside clung to his eyelashes.

“I never said it was beautiful. I said it was nice.”

At this, it started to pour.

“Oh no,” Maggie said. “I’m sorry. This is even less pleasant than I was expecting.”

“It’s fine. We can have our lesson in the stables.” Jamie gestured ahead to a stone building about a hundred meters away, then reached for Maggie’s hand. “Come on.”

By the time they reached the stables, Maggie was short of breath and light-headed. Feeling the warmth of Jamie’s hand in hers, she was glad he had not yet let go. “I want you to meet someone,” he said, leading her to the stall farthest from the door and stopping in front of a large, midnight black horse. “This is Oidhche. She reminds me of you.”

Maggie raised her eyebrows. “She’s a horse.”

“Yes,” Jamie said, releasing Maggie’s hand and approaching the horse slowly. “Remember me?” he asked, stretching out a hand. In answer, the horse stepped forward, meeting Jamie’s hand with its muzzle. “I’ve lived at Castle Leoch before, for a year when I was sixteen, and she and I arrived around the same time,” Jamie said to Maggie. “She was already a few years old. Alec, who runs the stables, had bought her from some traveling merchant. She was pretty shy at first but we got on immediately. It didn’t take her long to show us who she really was.”

“Which was?”

“Spirited. A bit wild even.” Jamie beckoned for Maggie to come closer. “Come, I’ll introduce you.”

Maggie didn’t move. Next to the horse, Jamie, one of the tallest men she had ever met, looked small. The top of his head barely reached to the animal’s eye.

“What’s wrong?” Jamie asked.

“I’ve never been this close to a horse before.”

“Oh. Are you scared?”

“A bit.”

“You had cows on your farm, though, right?”

“We had one cow.”

“Well, just think of her as a tall, skinny cow.”

“Whether I think of her as a tall, skinny cow or not,” Maggie said, “It won’t change the fact that she’s actually a horse.”

“She’ll be nice, I promise.”

Maggie nodded and slowly inched forward.

“Stand slightly to the side of her,” Jamie said, taking her hand again and guiding her to the horse’s left side, right next to that giant eye. “Oidhche, this is Maggie.”

“Hello, Oidhche,” Maggie said, feeling foolish.

“You can touch her if you want.”

Maggie raised a hand to the animal’s broad neck, placing it there lightly. She could hear her heart beating in her ears but tried to tune it out and instead listen to Oidhche’s steady breathing, inhaling and exhaling to match the horse’s pace.

“Not so bad, right?” Jamie asked.

“Not bad at all.”

“Oidhche can’t be the scariest animal you’ve ever encountered.”

“She’s not,” Maggie said, trying to banish thoughts of British soldiers coming to her house and taking away her mother, British guards hanging her father, Irish men and Scottish men staring at and through her as she poured their beer or walked through town or drifted off to sleep. No, this horse was not the scariest animal she had encountered.

“So,” Jamie said, “I suppose we should finally start our lesson.”

“Yes.” Maggie slowly backed away from the horse and sat down amongst a pile of hay. “I wanted to show you something, actually.” She opened up the Bible and flipped through until she arrived at the Book of the Ruth. “So, for the past few nights, I’ve been comparing this Bible to the Gaelic one I borrowed and I think I’ve learned a few words that way.” She showed the book to Jamie who had sat down next to her. Pointing to various words, she continued. “This must mean God, right? And this is father. This is mother, but I knew that already. I think this word is master or lord but I’m not sure, it could just be another word for God because they use it so often. And the sentence structure seems different so it was hard to decipher it all but I’m hoping you can explain it to me.”

Jamie exhaled slowly.

“What?” Maggie asked. “Is something wrong?”

“Not at all. I’m impressed. You’re right about everything. The last word you mentioned is lord but here it’s just used as another word for God.”

“And English sentences reverse the order, yes? We say the action and then the person but they say the person and _then_ the action that person does. It makes no sense but if you pay attention to names, you can figure it out. I realized that last night.”

“I’m beginning to wonder if you even need me.”

“Oh, but I do,” Maggie said. “There are so many words here that I don’t know.”

“Perhaps,” Jamie said. “But you are _very_ good at this.”

“Would you like to know a secret?”

“Sure.”

“I’m highly intelligent.”

Jamie looked taken aback but then laughed. “I thought women weren’t supposed to say such things.”

“Who made that rule?” Maggie asked. “Stupid men who didn’t want to be embarrassed by all the smart women around, I imagine.”

“I imagine you’re right.”

“Do I embarrass you?”

“No, you don’t.”

“I wouldn’t think so. You don’t seem stupid at all.”

“Thank you,” Jamie said. “Do I embarrass you?”

“Constantly.”

“Really? Why?”

“Because I’m too honest around you,” Maggie said. She saw Jamie’s eyes narrow before she quickly looked away. “Well,” she said. “Let’s get back to work. I do expect you to teach me something today.”

“Of course. Like I said, I feel a bit unnecessary but I guess we could keep looking through the uh—”

“Book of Ruth.”

“Right. Why the Book of Ruth, by the way? Why start with that one instead of Genesis or any other book for that matter?”

“It’s my favorite,” Maggie said. “I mean, the Bible is wonderful of course, I don’t mean to say it’s not, but it’s a lot of men, isn’t it? And the Book of Ruth isn’t about the men at all. It’s about Ruth and Naomi and the life that they build together. It’s nice to read about something that men had nothing to do with.”

Jamie flashed a toothy grin at her before closing to a tight-lipped smile. His eyes traveled across her face and Maggie felt as if he were trying to read her the way a person would read hard-to-decipher handwriting in a letter.

“You’re looking at me like an oddity,” she said.

“I’m sorry. I’ve just never heard a girl talk quite like you before.”

“It’s too much education,” Maggie said. “That’s what my father always said, anyways. Now that I’m in such a refined place and realizing how much I don’t know, I worry it might be too little education.”

“I’m not sure it’s either,” Jamie said. “Regardless, it’s a good thing. Definitely.”

Maggie smiled without looking up from the book.

“All right,” Jamie said. “Let’s start with the first sentence. How many of the words have you figured out?”

They continued like this for over an hour, until they had read through the first few pages. Maggie, it turned out, had not figured out too many of the words and, as she grew perpetually more embarrassed, she began to stumble on words she did know. Jamie was patient with her and she kept trying to remind herself of how impressed he had been at the start of the lesson. In fact, the faint smile never faded from his lips so she assumed he couldn’t be too disappointed in her. Maggie’s mind also drifted back continuously to what Jamie had said about never hearing a girl talk like her before. Coming from someone else, it could have been an insult but from him it seemed like a compliment—he had said as much himself. Mortification and pleasure mixed to form a neutral yet distracting blend. By the end of the lesson, Maggie had learned “man” and “woman” and the words for various different familial relationships and had gained a better understanding of English sentence structure, despite her continued belief that the grammatical system made no sense.

“Next time, we’ll get a quill and some parchment,” Jamie said, “So you can write all this down.”

“Do you have access to parchment?” Maggie asked.

Jamie seemed surprised by the question. “Yes. Just in Colum’s study, there are reams of it.”

“We never really had any growing up,” Maggie said. “So, my writing’s not as good as my reading but, you know, you see it on the page, you write it down. I figure it’s not that hard.”

“Judging from how you’ve done so far, I can’t see you having any trouble.”

Maggie blushed.

As they made their way back to the castle, she considered suggesting a longer walk. The rain had cleared and, while it was not exactly warm, it was not as frigid as it had been earlier. She was tired, though. Probably too tired to travel farther than the distance from the stables to the castle. Her arms felt heavy, as if they were dragging her shoulders down and the rest of her body with them. When Jamie had offered to carry the books back, she had not protested. Just two years ago, the idea that two books could qualify as a heavy burden would have struck her as ludicrous. But, even with the three meals a day and the small amount of weight she had gained back, she had to admit she was not as strong as she used to be. 

At the castle doors, Maggie saw a figure running toward them. “Miss Ó Broin, Miss Ó Broin.” It was the young man who had come to fetch her the night of Jamie’s arrival. “I’ve been looking everywhere for you, Miss. Broden’s taken ill. He needs you.”

“Is it serious?” Maggie asked.

“I think so, Miss. He’s lost consciousness.”

“Oh God.” Maggie started to sway. Without thinking, she reached out an arm, which Jamie caught hold of and held onto tightly. “Where is he? Can you—”

Before she could finish her sentence, a wall of black slowly curved up from her toes to her forehead, leaving her in darkness. She felt her legs crumple and her feet leave the ground before two arms caught her and lifted her into the air.


	7. Colm Cille

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Maggie wakes up to find a surprising caretaker

Maggie couldn’t tell if her eyes were open or closed. Her vision was black with occasional blood red spots floating past. Least frequently, but most painfully, flashes of hot white would explode in front of her, causing her whole body to ache. Time seemed to blur. There were moments when her mother was there. That she knew. But she couldn’t be sure of how long the moments lasted. All she knew was that she could feel her just inches away, just beyond the wall of black, reaching out to her. She tried to reach back but couldn’t move her arms.

“Màthair, Màthair,” she called. And then the name she had used when she was a child, “Màmag.”

Her father was there sometimes too, more corporeal yet more disturbing. He appeared as a floating head, the outline of a rope visible below his chin. He was always yelling but Maggie couldn’t make out what he was saying. She could see his mouth moving but no sound came out. He was yelling at someone else, at some unknown, and when he finally saw her and recognized her, he would fall silent and weep. 

She heard an unknown voice say, “Go forth, Christian soul, from this world in the name of God the almighty Father,” and then a second more familiar voice say, “No, it’s not time for that yet.”

Recognizing the words as a prayer for the dying, she cried out with the second voice, “No, no, no.” It wasn’t time. Not yet. And if it was, what good were the last two years? Why had she even tried to stay alive after her parents were killed? If she were only going to die immediately after finding a place, after finding something approaching happiness, what was the point?

Often after an outburst, she would feel a large but gentle hand brush her sweat-drenched hair off her face or wipe her forehead with a cool, damp cloth. “It’s all right,” the second voice would say. “You’ll be all right.”

At first, Maggie was gripped by terror with every image and sound and feeling that presented itself to her, but eventually she began to control her breathing, inhaling and exhaling in time with some mysterious, external force, just as she had matched her breathing with that of the horse. Slowly, she was able to relax and sleep. Occasionally, a particularly vivid image would come back and she would thrash around until a pair of hands loosely held her at her shoulders and the second voice returned to tell her it was all right.

 

Maggie woke to find herself in a dark, candle-lit room, slowly realizing that she was lying in her own bed chamber. The fire place glowed and the room was filled with the nutty, earthy smell of a turf fire. Maggie knew it must be warm but still felt unbearably cold. Pulling the blankets toward her for more warmth, she realized they were damp, as was she. She felt her forehead with the back of her hand, like she would if she were caring for someone else. The heat hurt her icy fingers, leaving her with an unpleasant burning sensation, the feeling of fingers and toes painfully thawing after coming in from the cold. She drew her hand away and lay it at her side, noticing for the first time a mop of red hair inches from her fingers. Unthinkingly, she ran her hands slowly through the curls.

Jamie lifted his head abruptly, speaking before his eyes were even fully open. “What? Is everything all r—?" Realizing it was Maggie who had woken him, he stopped and let out a long, low sigh. “Oh, thank God.”

“Hello.”

Jamie looked at the small imprint on the bed where his head had been. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I didn’t mean to be improper. I must have fallen asleep.”

“No, of course. And I didn’t mean to uh, touch you. Or, I did actually, but I wasn’t thinking.”

“You’ve been ill,” Jamie said by way of explanation.

“Yes,” Maggie said. Then, as her thoughts came into focus, “What about Broden? Is he all right?

“He is. Woke up two days ago. He’s on the mend.”

Maggie heard her heart beat slow to a study thump, just now noting the fluttery pace at which it had been beating. She closed her eyes and crossed herself. “Thank God,” she echoed Jamie. “Is someone tending to him?”

“Aye. Mrs. Fitz.”

“And has someone been seeing to your back?”

“Also Mrs. Fitz.”

“Right. That’s good. How long have I been asleep?”

“Off and on for four days. I—we were worried. Father Bain was sent for.”

“Was he the one who—?” Maggie began. “You told him it wasn’t time yet.”

“Yes,” Jamie smiled. “And you agreed. I thought he was a bit defeatist. Didn’t realize how determined you were. I doubt he’ll be making that mistake again”

“I told him no,” Maggie remembered.

“You did more than that. You grabbed him by the wrist and wouldn’t let go. It seemed like you thought he was going to kill you himself right then and there.”

“Did I really?”

“Yes, but you may not have been that far off. Far be for me to speak ill of a man of God, but Father Bain’s a rather certain man. He was certain you’d die and I think he was a bit displeased to be wrong.”

Maggie laughed and began to sit up but even that slight movement made her dizzy. Seeing her sway, Jamie reached out a hand to steady her.

“I feel so negligent,” he said. “You must be starving. I’ll go get you something.”

“I’m more thirsty than hungry but thank you. I appreciate that.”

“Of course. After you took such good care of me, I’d be quite the ingrate not to even bring you water. I’ll be right back.”

Slowly, her head spinning, Maggie sat up further and lifted her knees to her chest, trying to warm herself. She felt water run off her chin and lifted her hand to her cheek to find that she had been crying. _He was certain you’d die_ she repeated.

For years now, she had been staying alive through sheer animal instinct. When she lost her parents, death hadn’t even been an option she considered. Still, she hadn’t exactly been living _for_ anything. She had just been living, numbly travelling from place to place. Now, she realized, she had something to live for. She questioned her healing skills, knowing them to inferior to her mother’s or Mr. Beaton’s, but she did have some level of competency. She was of some use to someone at least. She had been of use to Jamie. She had friends now too, she thought. Broden and Mrs. Fitz. Broden was a little young perhaps and Mrs. Fitz was a little old but she enjoyed talking to them and they, surprisingly, seemed to enjoy talking to her as well. Her years of avoiding people, of viewing everyone with suspicion had not made her completely unbearable. And there was Jamie too. Jamie most of all. He, however, could leave at any time, especially if Murtagh had his way. Best not to get too invested just yet. If she was not too far gone already.

Maggie crossed herself and began the prayer of Saint Columba or Colm Cille, the abbot born in Donegal who travelled east to convert the Scots. Her father, who had spent several summers in Scotland working on a minor laird’s farm, used to say that Saint Colm Cille must have fought an almost impossible battle, dealing with “those Scots.” “Any Scot who’s half-civilized is so thoroughly English, there’s no sense in even talking to him,” he had told Maggie on several occasions. And yet, this was his favorite prayer, one he had taught Maggie almost as soon as she could speak and used to comfort her whenever she woke from a bad dream as a child.

_Be a bright flame before me, O God, a guiding star above me. Be a smooth path below me, a kindly shepherd behind me, today, tonight, and forever. Alone with none but you, my God I journey on my way. What need I fear when you are near, O Lord of night and day? More secure am I within your hand than if a multitude did round me stand. Amen._

“Thank you,” Maggie added, “For my life.”

She had just finished crossing herself when Jamie returned, holding a tankard in each hand, one of which was steaming, and carrying a calf-skin flask under his arm. Trailing behind him was a woman carrying a bowl and a platter. Maggie recognized her from the kitchen and smiled at her but she didn’t smile back, choosing instead to look around the room with disgust. Maggie supposed she wasn’t accustomed to delivering meals to the occupants of rooms so small, namely to the unimportant residents of the castle.

“Where do I put this?” she asked.

There was no table in the room, just a large chest by the foot of the bed.

“There’s good,” Jamie said, gesturing to the chest. “Thank you, Mrs. Fòlais.”

Maggie recognized the name. “Are you Broden’s mother?”

The woman nodded.

“I’m so glad he’s recovering,” Maggie said.

“Yes,” Mrs. Fòlais said, looking at Jamie instead of her. “Will that be all, sir?”

“Aye. Thank you.”

As soon as Mrs. Fòlais was out the door, Maggie turned to Jamie and grimaced. “She must hate me.”

“Why would she hate you?”

“Because of what happened to Broden. When I had him helping me with Mr. Beaton, I was putting him in danger and I didn’t even think of it. I feel horrible.”

“I see. Well, if it makes you feel any better, I probably would not have thought of it either. It’s so hard to know what diseases spread from person to person.”

“Oh God,” Maggie said. “What if I’ve passed it to you?”

“I doubt you have.”

“You don’t know that.”

“Well, I figure if I was going to catch it, it would have happened already so there’s no point in leaving you now. Besides, I think I’m pretty hard to kill.”

“Everyone thinks that when they’re young.”

Jamie raised his eyebrows. “I see your brush with death has made you very wise. But don’t go lecturing me now. You’re not so old yourself, Miss Ó Broin. I bet you’re younger than I am.”

“I’m eighteen.”

“Well, I’m nineteen so…” Jamie trailed off at the look on Maggie’s face, tired but stern. “I’m sorry, Maggie. I didn’t mean to be disrespectful. Mentioning the brush with death… I, well, I’m really glad you woke up.”

“I’m not offended by that,” Maggie said. “I’m concerned for you.”

“Ah, don’t be.”

“I’ll try not to be. I suppose I could just remind myself that you’ve lived a good long life, seeing as you’re nineteen and _so_ much older than me.”

Maggie rolled her eyes, then began to cough. Jamie quickly handed her one of the tankards and hovered over her, looking worried. When she continued to cough, he tentatively put a hand on her back and rubbed in a circle. Recovering, Maggie breathed deeply before taking a large drink of water.

“Right,” Jamie said. “Would you like any tea? I brought you water, of course, but also tea.” He picked up the other tankard, which he had placed on the floor. “It’s still hot. And I brought broth and oatcakes and cheese.” He pointed at the chest. “And there’s whiskey too.”

“I think just water is fine for now.”

“Right. Right.”

Jamie looked at her wide-eyed, nodding so much he looked like a bird pecking for worms. Maggie laughed.

“What?”

“Nothing.”

“Come on,” Jamie said. “What’s funny?”

“You’re so nervous.”

“Well, I don’t know the right thing to do after a person’s been ill. I think, maybe, you should be eating. Yes, I think you should have some broth.”

“All right. Thank you,” Maggie said, trading the tankard for the bowl of broth. It was warm and more flavorful than she expected, tasting strongly of rabbit and potatoes. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t laugh at you. You’re very kind. And you didn’t laugh at me when I was first helping you.”

“You mean my first night at the castle? Were you nervous?”

“Immensely.”

“I don’t remember it that well,” Jamie said. “I just remember liking you, feeling at ease. I mean, as much as I possibly could at the time.”

“I’m glad,” Maggie said.

“I thought you were unflappable.”

Maggie remembered that night when she had gasped at the sight of his back and then that morning when she had run to his room only partially dressed. “Is that a joke?”

“Not at all.”

“Well,” Maggie said, “You were understandably distracted that night so I suppose that explains your error in judgement.”

They both laughed but Jamie shook his head. “Whatever worries may be occupying your thoughts you are an exceedingly competent lass.”

“Such flattery! Stop or I’ll get conceited.”

“I think you already have,” Jamie said. “What was it you were telling me the other day? That you’re highly intelligent.”

“That was a joke.”

“No. It wasn’t. And it wasn’t inaccurate either.”

For the first time since she woke up, Maggie felt a sensation of warmth creep over her, simultaneously soothing and exhilarating. It was almost uncomfortable in its intensity and yet she didn’t want it to end. She turned away from Jamie, smiling into her bowl. “You were right about the broth, by the way. It’s definitely making me feel better. You should help yourself to the oatcakes, though. I don’t think I’m ready for them yet.”

“Are you sure?” Jamie waited for Maggie to nod, then grabbed the platter and began to eat ferociously. “This is actually my first meal of the day.”

“Is it morning?” Maggie asked. She looked to the east wall as if searching for the sun but the windowless room told her nothing.

“Aye. It is. But you wouldn’t know it from in here,” Jamie said.

“It is a bit disorienting at times.”

“Perhaps,” Jamie said. “I could talk to Colum about getting you a better room.”

“Oh, that won’t be necessary.”

“It’d be easy enough. I’m sure Mrs. Fitz could find you something.”

“Jamie, I’m a servant. This is good enough for me.”

“You’re not a servant, Maggie.” Jamie looked at her with gentle but serious eyes, as if reassuring her of her worthiness.

“I am and I’m not ashamed of it.”

Jamie blinked and looked away. “I never said you should be, but you’re not a servant. You’re a healer.”

“I’m the best healer Castle Leoch has currently. That’s all. I’m sure the MacKenzie will find someone better soon and in the meantime I’m here to do whatever needs to be done, to help Mrs. Fitz however she might need. And I’m grateful.”

“I just thought a window might be nice at least.”

“It would be,” Maggie said, “But I don’t need one. Besides, this room is almost as large as my old house. A window would be too much luxury. I wouldn’t know what to make of it.”

Jamie smiled. “I bet you have enough courtly graces to handle a window.”

“No.” Maggie shook her head emphatically. “I don’t think my childhood prepared me for it. We can’t all grow up in castles, you know.”

“My home isn’t as big as Castle Leoch,” Jamie said. “Only about half the size.”

To Maggie, this was still massive. “Half the size? How ever did you survive?”

Jamie looked at the ceiling, let out a dramatic huff, and uncorked the flask of whiskey.

“I thought that was supposed to be for me,” Maggie said.

“If I’m going to stay here and be picked on, I think I need it more.”

“Picked on? I nearly died,” Maggie said but shook her head when Jamie handed her the flask. “I actually don’t want it. I’m just teasing you. Again. I think I might be a fairly difficult woman. Perhaps you should keep your distance.”

Jamie said nothing but beamed at her toothily, before closing his mouth tightly, trying to hide his amusement.

“Why are you looking at me like that?”

“I’m just,” Jamie began. “I’m just so glad you’re all right.”

“Jamie Fraser, it seems you’ve become rather attached to me.”

“Seems I have.”

 


	8. Laird Broch Tuarach

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Maggie and Jamie are joined by unwelcome guests in the dining hall

“How does it look?” Jamie asked.

“Better than before,” Maggie said, running a hand gently down Jamie’s back.

It had taken Maggie just short of two weeks to recover from her illness and in that time Mrs. Fitz had capably and dutifully seen to Jamie’s bandages, allowing his back to heal nicely—or as nicely as could be expected. As Jamie stood before Maggie now, his back was a searing pink with raised, red scars crawling across it like stitches on an oft-mended shirt.

“But if you had not seen it before, what would you say?” Jamie asked.

“It’s,” Maggie began. “Well, it will probably fade more with time.”

“Is it grotesque?”

“Not grotesque, no. It’s… noticeable.”

“Ah, I see.” Jamie grabbed his shirt off his bed and hurriedly but it on.

“I’m so sorry, Jamie.”

“Ah, no.” Jamie turned toward her and smiled slightly. “I suppose it’s not too much of a problem. I won’t be seeing it anyway. I’ll just have to get used to other people’s reactions, if they see it. They will react, I assume.”

“It’s likely,” Maggie said. “People might stare a bit. But you won’t know if that’s because of your back or just because they find you very handsome.”

Jamie smiled again but couldn’t maintain it.

Maggie felt embarrassed and insensitive. She had been trying to inject levity into the conversation in order to make him feel better but she was now unsure if she should have been so flippant. She also knew personally that, despite the alarming sight of Jamie’s back, her attention was equally drawn to other parts of his generally fine figure. His height was striking and every time she looked at his broad shoulders she remembered the feeling of his arms around her as she pressed her head into his chest. Most of all, though, she was captivated by his penetrating green eyes and his purposeful eye contact. He made her feel “seen,” a simultaneously unnerving and exciting experience.

Maggie continued, nervously, trying to deflect attention away from her reddening face. “That’s what I always assume anyway, when people are staring at me—that they’re just drawn in by my beauty—but I know it’s not true.”

“Why wouldn’t it be true?” Jamie asked.

Maggie raised her eyebrows. “Because I’m not—that’s just not me. People don’t look at me that way, not for the right reasons. When I was traveling, there were men who stared but they were the kind of men who stared at everyone. And it wasn’t an experience I particularly enjoyed anyway.”

“Hmm. I don’t envy you that but I imagine you must have had some, uh, more appropriate admirers.”

“Admirers?” Maggie repeated as if she were just learning of the concept. “Gawkers perhaps but not admirers. Back home, I was the tallest girl in my village.” She paused and counted on her fingers. “I was actually the third tallest person—male or female—and I used to be much stronger and just, well, bigger. It was remarked upon from time to time.”

“Did that bother you?” Jamie asked.

“What? People talking about me?”

“No, being tall.”

“No, I guess not. It bothered them.”

“Their loss,” Jamie said.

“In fact, women used to tell my mother that I’d be hard to marry off because she’d never find a man willing to wed a woman bigger than him. It made her so mad. My father didn’t really mind, though. He’d just agree with them, happily, and then say he wasn’t too keen on getting rid of me anyway.”

“And that didn’t bother you either?”

“No. I loved it. The idea of being sold off like cattle was never especially appealing to me anyway.”

“That’s not exactly how I would describe marriage,” Jamie said.

“Well, you have a different perspective.”

“You’re right,” he said. “Our traditions are a bit more civilized here in Scotland.”

Maggie pushed him gently. “That’s not what I meant at all. I meant that you’re a man so it’s different for you.”

“That may well be but your parents had a love marriage, didn’t they?”

“Yes, but that’s the exception.”

Jamie shrugged his shoulders. “I have to say the men in your village sound exceptionally small.”

_That’s because they aren’t eating huge meals in the great hall every day,_ Maggie thought, remembering the sunken, hungry looks on some of her neighbors faces during a bad harvest and the men who left for Ulster or Scotland every summer hoping to make enough money to feed their families for the rest of the year. Maggie, herself, had not known true hunger until her parents died but they had experienced plenty of lean years. She decided not to mention this to Jamie. Instead, she asked, “You’re not impressed by my massive size?”

Jamie put his hand on top of her head and then drew it back to himself in straight line, measuring her up comparatively. His hand—and Maggie’s head—stopped at his chest, just below his shoulders. “No, I’m not,” he said.

Maggie laughed then turned when she heard shuffling feet outside the door, the sound of people pouring down to the great hall for dinner.

“Shall we go?” she asked.

Jamie hesitated then nodded gravely. Since arriving at the castle, he had yet to eat in the great hall, first eating in his room while he was recovering, then taking meals with Maggie while she was ill. Most recently, Maggie had seen Jamie sneaking in and out of the kitchen around meal times, disappearing to either his room or the stables. She had heard people whispering about Jamie, his flogging at Fort William, and his father—the subject Jamie seemed most anxious about discussing—and knew they were likely to be topics of conversation when he finally appeared in public.

When her own parents had died, Maggie had not had to speak to anyone about it. She had left Donegal the day after her father’s execution and sailed for Scotland less than a year after that—partly in search of food and work but also partly to escape the sadness that hung about her old home, to avoid its reinforcement through the pitying looks of friends and neighbors. 

Unsure of what to say, Maggie walked back to Jamie and gently touched him on the arm. He seemed to understand the gesture and smiled slightly.

“We’ll sit together,” Maggie said, “If you want to.”

“Of course.”

As they walked to the hall, Maggie felt something flutter inside her. While she wished Jamie didn’t have to face any of this, she was pleased that, after such a short period of time, he was already choosing to face it with her. It made her feel useful. And something more that she couldn’t explain.

“I just assumed we’d sit together,” Jamie said, interrupting her thoughts. “Because you don’t know anyone else here, do you?”

The fluttering creature turned to lead and dropped to the bottom of Maggie’s stomach.

“Pardon me?” she said. “What do you think I did before you arrived here? Or at all the meals I attended without you?”

“I don’t know. I have to admit I’ve been a bit worried about it.”

“How gallant of you. But, I can assure you, I was fine without you.” Maggie stopped and looked at Jamie. Even though she had to look up to meet his eyes, she tried to give the impression of looking down her nose at him.

“Glad to hear it,” Jamie said, completely unintimidated. “Come on, I see two seats by Murtagh.”

“Oh good, I was worried we’d have to sit with someone who actually liked me,” Maggie muttered as Jamie walked away from her.

“What?”

“Nothing,” she said, catching up to him.

Murtagh caught her eye as they approached and Maggie was surprised to see him smile and nod at her as she took a seat across from him and Jamie.

“Glad to see you’re feeling better, lass,” he said.

“Yes, thank you.”

Maggie was quiet for several moments after that, stunned by Murtagh’s civility and, even more so, by the spread before her. No matter how many times she ate at the MacKenzie’s table she could not get used to the quantity or variety of food. In the center of the table were an entire pheasant, surrounded by turnips and potatoes, and a venison rib rack, each segment dark brown and generously seasoned on the outside with rich pink innards. To the left of the two main courses, was a platter of cheese. To the right, a basket of bread—bannocks still radiating warmth. Also on the table were bowls of black berries and steamed pears—a fruit as new to Maggie as the plum she had accidentally shot Angus Mhor with.

All of this was foreign to her really. She never knew how to behave during meals—how to eat, what to eat, how much. She watched Jamie cut off a rib of venison and place it on his plate, ready to copy him. Before she could get hold of the knife, however, he passed the plate to her and took her empty one, serving first Murtagh and then himself.

“Thank you,” Maggie said, watching Jamie and Murtagh to see how they’d eat the meat. Usually, she’d pick it up with her hands and eat the meat off the bone but she thought that might not be proper at Castle Leoch. The two men only added to her uncertainty, Jamie eating with knife and fork and Murtagh eating with his hands. Maggie decided to emulate Jamie and was taking her first bite when two men sat down on either side of her. 

“Ah, Jamie,” the blonde-haired man to her left said, “Good to see you.”

“You, as well, Rupert.”

Rupert now turned to Maggie, his eyes travelling from her head to her lap and back up again. “I see you have a new lass with you. Care to introduce us?”

“Yes of course,” Jamie said. “Rupert, this is Maggie Ó Broin and Maggie, this is Rupert MacKenzie.”

“Pleased to make your acquaintance, Miss Ó Broin.”

As Rupert continued his up and down appraisal of Maggie, she moved her head, purposefully trying to catch his eye and hold his gaze in place before he could make a third pass down her body. Finally establishing eye contact, she narrowed her eyes slightly and smiled mirthlessly. The lecherous look faded and Rupert’s face fell momentarily but he quickly recovered and began helping himself to the venison, pheasant, and cheese, all of which he ate with his hands, taking alternating bites of each.

“Are you going to introduce me too?” a reedy voice asked.

Even with her back to him, Maggie could smell the man on her right—earthy and oily and sickly sweet, the smell of manure and too much liquor. The skin on the back of her neck stung as she felt the alcohol on the man’s breath sinking into her pores. She turned to see the uneven smile slowly fade from the man’s flaky red face.

“And this is Angus Mhor,” Jamie said.

“We’ve already met,” Angus said.

“But not been properly introduced.” Maggie swallowed. “So it’s nice to meet you more officially.”

Angus grunted.

“Tell me, Jamie,” Rupert said, spitting out bits of bannock as he spoke. “How is it that you came to be in the Fort William prison to begin with? I was wondering that when Dougal called us to come fetch you out.”

“Aye,” Jamie said. “I’m very grateful to you.”

“But how’d you draw the English ire in the first place? There must be a story there.”

“Not really.” Jamie stared at his plate.

“You must have done something,” Rupert continued. “Come on. Most lads would be bragging about confronting the Redcoats.”

“I didn’t exactly confront them.”

“I hope you got a few good punches in at least. To make up for that flogging.”

At the last word, Jamie flinched. Murtagh fixed Rupert with a threatening stare, warning him to abandon this line of questioning. He looked as if he might jump across the table and strangle Rupert.

Rupert didn’t seem to care and opened his mouth to ask yet another question.

“Mr. MacKenzie,” Maggie interrupted. “How long have you lived at the castle?”

“All my life,” Rupert answered, quickly turning back to Jamie.

“And do you like living here?” Maggie asked before Rupert had a chance to speak again.

“It’s my home.”

“Right. Well, I like it very much. I used to live in Donegal but I’ve been travelling all over Scotland—or all over the Highlands at least—and I think Castle Leoch is my favorite part so far.”

“That’s nice, lass,” Rupert said.

“It is,” Maggie said. “It’s been very nice living here. I haven’t been here that long but I really enjoy it.”

“You’ve told us that already,” Angus said.

“What I like best,” Maggie continued as if she hadn’t heard, “What I like best about Castle Leoch is the people.”

This, finally, caught Rupert’s interest.

“You like the people?” he said, moving closer to her.

“Some of them.”

“I reckon you’ve met some of the finest people you’re ever likely to meet just tonight. And I bet you’d enjoy getting to know them a bit better.” Rupert placed a hand on Maggie’s knee.

“I doubt that very much, sir,” Maggie said, pulling her leg away and feeling Rupert’s hand slide off.

The table remained silent, everyone staring into their own plates. Maggie took a bite of pear, enjoying the feel of the purple-red skin as it fell off the flesh of the fruit and stuck itself to the roof of her mouth. Mrs. Fitz and her brilliant kitchen staff had cooked the pears in red wine, adding a refreshing crispness and tempering the fruit’s sweetness. Maggie tried to savor the moment, as she had with all the other new flavors that had presented themselves to her since her arrival at the castle, but found her enjoyment hindered by the icy quiet. She served herself a chicken thigh and began another attempt to steer the conversation into gentler territory.

“When I first arrived at Leoch, I was also really struck by—”

She was cut off by a loud horsey exhalation from Angus.

“Excuse me, Mr. Mhor. Am I bothering you?”

“Can you not sit with the other women?”

Jamie furrowed his brow and made a move as if to say something but was beaten to it by Rupert, who, finding another opportunity to make his libidinous intentions known, had leaned across Maggie—glancing down her dress as he went—in order to performatively whisper to Angus, “She probably doesna find them as stimulating as she finds us.”

Maggie looked over at a table in the far corner of the hall, filled exclusively with women, all talking and laughing uproariously.

“In truth,” she said, “In my experience, most women are of significantly more interest than men. However, it is my misfortune to only be acquainted with the men of this castle, at present.”

Jamie raised his eyebrows but smiled.

“Now, if you’ll excuse me,” she said, standing up.

Jamie’s smile disappeared. “Maggie, you don’t have to go.”

“I know. I just see someone I’d like to speak with. I’ll be right back.”

At first, she walked calmly toward the great hall’s entrance but her footsteps gradually grew faster, her stride longer, until she was practically running. She had seen Broden enter the hall as she peered over Jamie’s shoulder and had hardly been able to get any words or explanation out before springing up from the table. Now that Broden was standing in front of her, his face turned up to hers expectantly, she didn’t know what to say.

“Are you well?” she eventually blurted out.

“Yes.”

“You’re fully recovered?”

“Yes, Mistress, of course.”

“Oh thank God,” Maggie said, dropping to her knees and pulling Broden into a hug.

She held on tightly, feeling his realness between her arms, making sure the healthy eight-year-old boy she saw before her was truly there.

“Mistress, what are you doing?” The muffled voice sounded against her shoulder.

“Oh, sorry.” She released him but remained kneeling. Broden’s eyes darted around the room sheepishly as he fidgeted back and forth. Maggie supposed people must have been watching, supposed she was embarrassing him.

“I’m just so glad you’re all right,” she said, echoing the words that Jamie had said to her.

“And you as well, Mistress,” Broden said, putting his arms around her for a second, much shorter hug.

“I’m so sorry, Broden. For putting you in danger.”

“What do you mean?”

“You got sick from tending to Mr. Beaton with me. I didn’t even think about him passing on the illness. I was foolish.”

“It’s all right, Mistress. I would have wanted to be there anyway, to help out, whether it was dangerous or not.”

“That’s very sweet of you.”

“And brave,” Broden added.

Maggie smiled. “Yes, you’re right. You’re very brave.”

“I think you probably are too,” Broden said.

“I don’t know about that.”

Broden shrugged his shoulders and looked at her for a while before saying bashfully, “I’m pretty hungry.”

“Right. Go have your dinner. I won’t keep you any longer.”

He nodded and ran off but then changed his mind and came back. “Can I eat with you?”

“Of course,” Maggie said, getting back to her feet. “Come on.”

As they passed each table, she heard the conversation cease, leading her to believe that the conversations must have been about her. She wondering what they thought of her. It couldn’t be too flattering. At best, she was the strange woman who disrupted dinner to dramatically hug another woman’s son. At worst, she was the idiot woman who had endangered the life of a child.

When they had almost reached the table, Broden stopped and gestured for Maggie to bend down so he could whisper in her ear. “I don’t think I can sit with you, Mistress.”

“Why not?”

“Do you really want me there when you’re talking with all your adult friends?”

“Of course I do,” Maggie said. “Between you and me, they’re not that adult and most of them aren’t my friends either.”

“Which ones are?”

“Just that one there.” Maggie pointed to Jamie. “Jamie Fraser.”

“That makes sense.”

“Pardon me?”  

“He came to the castle when I was little,” Broden said. Maggie smiled. Broden was still little. “My mother said all the girls liked him.”

“Oh.” Maggie felt her cheeks warm. “Come on then. I think you’ll introduce some much needed civility into this group of adults.”

Broden nodded and took the empty seat by Jamie, while Maggie resumed her place in between Angus and Rupert, who were talking and laughing animatedly as Jamie and Murtagh looked on with strained expressions. Pleased to be interrupted, Jamie served Broden some venison and asked him what part of the chicken he’d like, agreeing happily when Broden asked if he could have the last wing.

“Broden, do you know everyone here?” Maggie asked.

“Aye, we know him,” Rupert answered. “Little rascal.” He smiled at Broden with more kindness than Maggie would have expected. Angus, of course, merely grunted.

“Well, this is Mr. Fraser.” Maggie gestured to Murtagh but paused before getting to Jamie, unsure of whether to introduce him but not wanting to admit they had just been talking about him. “Uh, this is also Mr. Fraser.”

“Jamie is fine.”

“Oh no, Mister, I could never.” Broden looked scandalized.

“You could always call him my Lord,” Rupert said. “Isn’t that right, _Laird_ Broch Tuarach?”

Jamie cast his eyes to the ground. “I’d prefer it if you didn’t,” he said quietly. Broden, picking up on Jamie’s sadness, looked concerned. Maggie half expected him to push a pear into Jamie’s face as offers of fruit seemed to be his method of choice for cheering up the mysterious, sullen grown-ups he was always encountering. Jamie, seeming to notice Broden’s concern as well, lifted his head up and smiled at Broden, saying, “You can just call me Jamie. Or Mr. Jamie, I suppose. If you absolutely must.”

“All right, Mr. Jamie,” Broden said.

Jamie caught Maggie’s eye and shook his head. Evidently, he was not used to being addressed with such formality either.

“Now that that’s over with,” Rupert said, launching back into the story he had been telling before, a tale of his last visit to a whore house where the women were so titillated by his presence they refused to charge him and instead argued amongst themselves about who would get to “receive his gift”—as he put it—first. “They had heard of me from some other lasses in the village. The lasses talk about me, you see.”

“I don’t believe a word of it,” Angus said.

“You best believe it,” Rupert said. “There’s no way I could make this up.”

He continued, telling how the women all surrounded him, disrobing and fighting with each other in front of, completely naked. He described the ensuing drama with a mix of English and Gaelic vulgarities, apparently finding one language inadequate to appropriately capture the entire graphic picture. By the time he arrived at the part in which two of the women began to pleasure each other for his amusement, Murtagh had stood enough.

“Jesus, man. Not in front of the lady!”

“Or the _child_.” Maggie gestured to Broden, knowing he wouldn’t appreciate being called a child but also not, herself, appreciating being coddled more than the young boy also at the table.

“I don’t mind,” Broden said. “I’m not actually sure what you’re talking about.”

“I imagine the lass isn’t either,” Rupert said.

“I assure you, Mr. MacKenzie, I am. I have to say, I believe that the women talk about you. We women are usually quite good about warning each other about men with such large appetites. And imaginations.”

Maggie tried to hide her smile as the men looked at her with a combination of admiration, amusement, horror, and—for Rupert’s part, at least—anger.  She cut off another rib of venison and took a bite, before fixing Rupert with a final, confrontational glare.

Rupert struggled for a worthy retort but eventually settled on, “I see you’re enjoying the venison, Miss Ó Broin. Are you not embarrassed to be eating so much in front of men?”

“Obviously not,” Maggie said, taking another bite of the tender meat.

After that, they all gave up on trying to make conversation, not that anyone but Maggie and Rupert had been trying that hard to begin with and even then the two had been acting at cross-purposes. Diners slowly drifted out of the great hall and Broden left to answer his mother’s call, saying goodbye to Maggie and “Mr. Jamie” and no one else. Maggie felt bad for exposing him to, and honestly setting, such a bad example. She considered finding him afterward and telling him that this was not how adults typically conversed with one another but she was not as sure as she would have liked that this was in fact true.

When they had eaten and drunk their fill—which Maggie noticed incredulously was far more than what she had eaten and which had gone completely uncommented on—Rupert and Angus stood up to leave but lingered uneasily. Finally, Rupert spoke.

“I apologize for the crack about Laird Broch Tuarach. I was very sorry to hear of your father’s passing, Jamie.”

“Thank you, Rupert. I appreciate that.”

Rupert looked over at Angus expectantly. When nothing came from Angus, Rupert punched him hard in the arm.

“Jesus,” Angus said.

“Well?” Rupert said, as if coaxing a polite response out of a child.

“Oh, right. I’m sorry as well. Truly.”

Jamie and Maggie smiled at one another as Rupert and Angus stalked off. Getting up himself, Jamie was soon met by a crowd of people, forming a line in front of him. Maggie reached across the table to touch his arm. Jamie turned to her and nodded. “I’m fine.”

Murtagh and Maggie stood to the side, giving Jamie space to talk to his many well-wishers. Maggie heard bits of conversations, most of them following a similar pattern of condolences for the loss, appreciation from Jamie, and sometimes a hug from one of the women, whose embrace Jamie would have to stoop to meet.

“How’d you get him to come down to the hall?” Murtagh asked her.

“I didn’t really have to do anything. I think he was ready.”

“Well, I’m very grateful to you all the same.”

Maggie saw some movement under Murtagh’s bushy beard, not exactly a smile but close enough. She felt his approval wash over her, surprised by how much she relished it. Seizing upon this rare moment of friendliness—and perhaps openness as a result—she asked, “Who’s Laird Broch Tuarach?”

“Jamie’s father,” Murtagh said. “Or, he was. Jamie’s the laird now. That’s another thing to keep quiet, you hear? Far too many people know already, if you ask me.”

“Of course. I won’t tell anyone.”

Murtagh inclined his head toward her and left, leaving Maggie to contemplate that word—laird. Not only was Jamie the MacKenzie’s nephew; he was also a laird in his own right and he was choosing to spend time with her, the daughter of a tenant farmer and a penniless descendant of a once-powerful family. She wandered into the passageway outside the hall, thinking about the impropriety of this situation, until her musings were interrupted by a voice behind her. 

“Well, that went well,” Jamie said. “I think Rupert’s in love with you.”

Maggie laughed. “Are you…” she struggled to find the right word, “all right?”

“I’m fine. Are you all right?”

“Of course. Why wouldn’t I be?”

“Well, Rupert and Angus were a bit..”

“Horrible. And lascivious and churlish and—”

“Many unpleasant things,” Jamie said. “I’m sorry I didn’t intervene. I wasn’t sure what to say.”

“You had other thoughts on your mind. Besides, I can take care of myself.”

“Aye. You made that perfectly clear.”

Maggie blushed. “I behaved very badly, didn’t I?”

“Not at all. You were entirely justified in everything you said.”

“I am sorry for the comment about men being uninteresting. I didn’t mean you of course. I definitely don’t consider it a misfortune to be acquainted with _you_.” Maggie stuttered through the last sentence, sure her cheeks were emitting a red, beacon-like glow.

“I wasn’t offended.” Jamie smiled. “But are all your meals like that?”

“No, they’ve mostly been quite pleasant. I usually eat with just Broden.”

“Ah, so it’s only when you’re with me that things go bad.”

“Exactly.”

“I might be more trouble than I’m worth.”

Maggie smiled but said nothing.

Jamie bent his head and said in a near whisper, “This is the part where you say I’m no trouble at all.”

“Well, I’m not going to lie. You certainly are a lot of trouble but I think you’re worth it.” She started to walk away, calling over her shoulder, “I’m not sure yet. I’m still assessing.”


	9. Fools and Rabbits

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Maggie enjoys a snowy day at Castle Leoch

“Jamie, Jamie.” Maggie knocked gently on the chamber door. “Jamie, are you awake?” No response. She knocked harder, knowing that she had received her answer already but not quite ready to give up. “Jamie!” She knocked with such force that the knuckles on her right hand began to ache, forcing her to switch to the left hand. She was about to opt for a solid, pounding fist when the door behind her opened.

“I assume you have a good reason to be waking up half the castle,” Murtagh said, emerging from his room, the hairs on his head and face sticking out in all directions. He rubbed at his eyes several times. They were heavy with interrupted sleep but already gleaming with frustration.

“I suppose not,” Maggie said. Murtagh stared at her, hardly reacting to her words. “I’m sorry. I’ll just go then.”

She turned to leave but before she could get ten steps away, Murtagh had bounded across the hall, wrenched Jamie’s door open, and entered the room. Maggie followed him hesitantly.

Jamie lay on his freshly healed back, one arm tucked behind his head and the other reaching out, his palm facing outward as if ready to be held by someone. His legs were more orderly, coming together to form a diagonal line across the bed so that his feet would not hang off the end.

Murtagh placed a hand on Jamie’s shoulder and shook it roughly. Jamie didn’t move. “Jamie,” Murtagh called to no effect. Finally, Murtagh leaned his head down by Jamie’s ear and yelled, “Jamie, get yourself up, man!”

Jamie jolted awake, rising so fast he almost banged heads with Murtagh. “Christ!” he yelled. Then seeing Maggie in the room, “Is everything all right?”

Murtagh nodded. “The lass wants to talk to you.”

Murtagh stalked off, muttering under his breath, leaving Maggie standing awkwardly at the end of the bed.

“What’s going on?” Jamie asked.

Maggie looked down at her feet sheepishly, watching the last of the fully-formed snowflakes on her shoes slowly melt away. “It’s snowing,” she said.

“Oh.”

“And I wanted you to see it, if you were awake anyway.”

“I see.” Jamie ran his hands over his face, wiping away his tiredness. “What time is it?”

Maggie turned to the window to see the dark blue of the sky just before dawn, its color lightening at the bottom. “I’m not sure. Early I suppose.”

“What are you doing up?” Jamie asked with a mixture of amusement and mild annoyance.

“I’ve been up for hours. One of the women from the kitchen spilled some boiling water on her arms. She’ll be fine but Mrs. Fitz called me to come see to her.”

“She and Mrs. Fitz were at work this early?”

“Of course,” Maggie said. “They’re always up at this hour preparing breakfast. Most of the women are awake doing something.”

“Really?”

“Yes, really.” Maggie raised her eyebrows and gave the young laird before her a knowing look.

Jamie understood her meaning. “At Lallybroch—my home—we’re often awake at dawn to plant crops or harvest them or tend to the horses or some such thing.”

“And you have food and drink available to you?”

“Yes, Mrs. Crook or Jenny usually have the table set—” Jamie trailed off. “Ah, I take your point.” He was quiet for a while but then looked up at her with a wry grin. “I have to say, Maggie, it takes some nerve to shame me for sleeping late when you’ve just barged into my room to tell me about the _snow_.”

“Yes, sorry about that.”

“Which part?”

“Both.”

“You’re not that sorry, though, are you?”

Maggie smiled, her excitement overtaking her embarrassment. “Not overwhelmingly so. I really think you should come outside, Jamie. It’s beautiful.”

“All right,” Jamie said with a sigh of mock exasperation. “If it’ll make you happy. I’ll just need to get dressed.” He began to swing his legs out of the bed and Maggie saw he was wearing nothing but a long undershirt. “Which means you’ll have to wait outside.”

“Right, of course,” Maggie said, scurrying out the door. “I was just going to do that.”

Jamie emerged from his room wearing a pair of black trews—it was the first time Maggie had seen him in anything beside his kilt—a heavy coat, and a grey, felted hat. In his arms, he carried a large, red scarf, which he handed to Maggie.

“So your head doesn’t get too cold,” he said, looking at her rather unimpressive cloak, the hood of which had long since been caught on a tree branch and torn off.

“Thank you,” Maggie said, wrapping the scarf over her head and around her shoulders.

She led him quickly through various hallways until they finally reached one of the outer doors. Outside, the sun was beginning to rise above the far mountains, catching the snowflakes in its rays and dying them orange as they fell to the ground. White blanketed the ground, as well as the stable and castle roofs. After travelling just a few steps from the castle, Maggie already had snow up to her mid-shins. She could feel the flakes melting against the warmth of her body, seeping into her high, wool socks but she didn’t mind. She lifted her head to the sky to watch the snowflakes slowly descend, catching them on her eyelashes and then her tongue. She threw her arms out, letting the snow fall on her, hoping to collect enough that she looked like the trees around her, all of them dressed in beautiful, white robes.

Looking back behind her where Jamie still stood close to the castle, Maggie saw an expression of wonder on his face and noticed that he was looking not at the castle grounds but at her.

“Have you never seen snow before?” he asked.

“Of course I have. Just never like this. It doesn’t stick on the ground like this in Donegal.”

Back home, Maggie’s family had experienced at least one snowfall per year but it rarely accumulated on the ground and always melted within days if it ever did form any sort of mass. Winters for them had meant biting frosts that killed their crops if they came too early, barren trees, and long stretches of darkness, unredeemed by the white gleam of snow.

“Come on,” Maggie said, trying to draw Jamie away from the castle. “I’ll race you to the stables.”

She began to run, turning around to see if Jamie was following her. After giving her a considerable head start, he started up behind her, causing Maggie to run more quickly and focus straight ahead as she heard his breathing growing closer and closer. She had to pick her knees up high in order to get her feet to clear the deep snow, giving herself the appearance of a soldier marching at triple or quadruple time. She turned again to see Jamie running straight through the snow depths, instead of over them, steadily gaining on her. As she grew closer to the hill leading down to the stables, she tried lengthening her stride and barreling straight through the snow as Jamie did. She carried it off well enough at first but when she reached the top of the hill, her right foot caught behind her, causing her to fall face first and go sliding down on her stomach. She managed to throw out her arms just in time to brace herself against the horse pen and stop herself from shooting underneath the fence.

“Maggie! Are you all right?” Jamie came running down the hill, looking not all together graceful but managing to keep his feet under him.

Maggie stood up slowly, brushing snow from her dress and shaking out her hands which stung a bit from the impact with the fence.

“I’m fine,” she said, trying to brush her long, brown hair out of her face. Somehow her ribbon must have come untied and it was still not bright enough for her to find it in the snow. She searched for it anyway, digging through the snow. Then, with her freezing hands she tried again to collect her tangled mass of hair together, accidentally transferring some of the snow from the ground to her head, leaving her hair not just messy but also wet.

Seeing this, Jamie, who was now standing in front of her, reached toward her and tucked her hair behind her ears, leaving his warms hands on either side of her head for a moment when he was finished. He made brief eye contact with Maggie before drawing his hands away and holding them behind his back, as if trying to hide the evidence of this perhaps too intimate act.

Maggie pulled the scarf back over her head and laughed. “That must have been quite a sight. Me bowling down that hill.”

“It was indeed.”

“It’s fine if you laughed.”

“I didn’t.”

“You can laugh now if you want. I’m dreadfully embarrassed and I think the best thing now would be for us both to laugh at my foolishness and get it over with.”

Jamie smiled and leaned toward her. “Did you really think you were going to beat me in a race, Maggie?”

“I did beat you.”

Now Jamie laughed. “I suppose you did. So, that at the end there was more of a dive than a fall, I assume.”

“You assume right,” Maggie said. “And that’s the story I’ll expect you to tell to others if this ever comes up.”

Jamie laughed again. “Let’s get you back up to the castle and dried off,” he said, offering Maggie a hand as he started back up the hill.

“Why?”          

“Because you’ll get cold.”

“Worse things have happened,” Maggie said. “Even to fair maidens such as myself.”

“I didn’t mean to imply that you were overly delicate,” Jamie said quickly.

“I wasn’t offended. Or, I was a bit but that’s just because I’m crotchety and unpleasant.” Jamie raised his eyebrows. “It’s just that I don’t need to be ‘gotten back to the castle,’” Maggie continued. “I can handle myself.”

“No you can’t,” Jamie said. “You’ve just proven that.”

Maggie crossed her arms and leaned back on one foot, angling her body in what she meant to be a challenging way. Her foot, however, slid on an icy, compacted patch of snow that her fall had created and she lost her balance, falling backward. Jamie reached out quickly and grabbed her, pulling her back to her feet.

“You don’t need looking after because you’re a woman, Maggie. You need looking after because you’re a uniquely ungainly one.”

Maggie scoffed but appreciated the feeling of Jamie’s hand still holding onto her arm.

“I’m teasing, of course,” Jamie said. “You need looking after less than anyone I’ve ever met.” Maggie smiled. “Do try to keep your feet under you, though.”

“Hmm.” Maggie started back up the hill, Jamie trailing behind her. “I don’t suppose anyone’s watching us,” she said. “And I’m quite wet already and I suppose all the fires in the castle are lit and I’ll have some time this afternoon to dry off before them.”

“Aye,” Jamie said, puzzled.

“Right, hold this.” Maggie handed Jamie the scarf, backed up, and took a running start at the hill, sliding onto her left side at the very top. As she careened down the slope, she saw the trees and brightening sky flying past her. At the bottom, she stopped herself expertly by placing a foot on one of the fence posts. She jumped back up and waved to Jamie who was staring at her incredulously.

When she reached the top of the hill again, Jamie tried to hand the scarf back to her but she shook him off and made another leap down the hill. This time, she stayed down for a while, lying on her back with her eyes closed, inviting the snowflakes to land on her face.

Eventually, a shadow appeared before her, obscuring her vision. Blinking, she realized it was Jamie staring down at her. His expression registered an odd mixture of admiration and mild disapproval. It was a look Maggie was becoming more and more accustomed to.

“Now it’s your turn,” she said, still lying down.

“To make a fool of myself?”

“Well, why not? Most people do it every day.”

Maggie stood up as gracefully as she could—which was not very—shaking the snow out of her large, billowy skirt. “Come on,” she called, heading back up the hill.

Jamie shook his head but instead of a real protest, merely said, “What should we do with this then?” holding up the bundled up scarf.

Maggie took it from him, gathered her hair together, and wrapped the scarf around her head several times, tying it at the top so it resembled a turban. Jamie smirked at her.

“What?”

“Nothing,” he said. “You’re just very resourceful.”

“Indeed. All right then. So, you just make a run for it and then slide right as you reach the very top of the hill, maybe even a little bit after. You don’t want to slide too early.”

“It doesn’t look that complicated.”

“You’d be surprised.”

Maggie held out her hand. After a moment’s hesitation, Jamie grabbed hold of it.

“We’ll go together,” Maggie said. “Ready?”

Jamie nodded with feigned seriousness.

“All right,” Maggie yelled and they began to run, somewhat awkwardly, not entirely in step with one another. “One, two, three.” At the crest of the hill, they both dropped to their sides and glided down the hill.

Jamie held his head up as they slid, looking all around him as Maggie had done during her first two runs. She, however, was preoccupied by a different sight, her eyes quickly darting from Jamie back to the fast-approaching fence. As a slightly crooked smile crept across Jamie’s face, Maggie couldn’t help but beam herself. Sunlight reflected off his hair, revealing golden hues amidst the general mass of copper.

Maggie must have stared too long, transfixed by the fire-like curls, because, at the bottom of the hill, she did not feel the familiar thud of the fence posts against her feet but rather a terrifying nothingness and then a sharp tug on her arm as her sledding partner did come to a stop. Coming to, she realized she had slid under the fence and into the horse pen, a realization made more striking when a giant, black horse appeared before—and above—her. Its shoulder muscles rippled beautifully as it picked up its hooves and ran toward her. Still on her back, Maggie pushed herself toward the fence, aided by a pair of hands that suddenly appeared under her arms, pulling her away from the horse.

Jamie and Maggie looked at each other wide-eyed. Maggie nodded, indicating that she was all right, and Jamie climbed over the fence to calm the horse, who Maggie now recognized as Oidhche.

As Jamie slowly approached the animal, his hand outstretched, an old man ran out of the stables. “Jamie, what are you playing at?”

“Alec,” Jamie said, jumping slightly and restartling the horse he had just quieted. “How long have you been here?”

“Long enough to see you launching yourself at my horses.”

“I’m so sorry, sir,” Maggie said, ducking through the rails of the fence but staying close to the edge, away from the still wary horse. “It was my idea. I was the one being foolish.”

Alec ignored her and continued to chastise Jamie. “What were you doing with the lass in the first place?”

“I—we were just walking about the grounds.”

“Hmm. Well, now that you’re here, you can help me with the horses. You always were good with them.” Alec glanced over at Maggie. “This moment excepted.”

Maggie watched the old man approach the horse lightly, stroke its nose, then gently lead it inside with a hand on its neck. He gestured for Jamie to follow but Jamie walked over to Maggie instead.

“Jamie, I’m so sorry.”

“Ah, no.” Jamie waved off her apologies. “I wish we hadn’t spooked Oidhche but it was fun. More fun than I’ve had in months.” The crooked smile reappeared.

 _This is more fun than I’ve had in two years,_ Maggie thought. The girl of the past two years would never have been so reckless. She liked this girl better.

“Ah, good,” she said. “I thought you may have just been appeasing me.”

“Not at all. I enjoyed that immensely. Perhaps, it’s your bad influence rubbing off on me but I can’t say for sure. Either way, it was my decision to join you.”

“And what were you doing with me in the first place?” Maggie asked. “You should keep better company.”

They smiled at each other for a while before Jamie awkwardly pointed behind his shoulder. “I should—”

“Of course. I’ll see you later.”

Maggie trudged back to the castle, walking in as dignified a manner as she could until the stables disappeared from view behind the hill. Then, arms outstretched like wings, she made a run for it, jumping around and spinning in circles, finally letting herself fall backwards into the ever-growing fluffiness of the snow. She turned her head to eat some of the snow right off the ground. There was not another living creature around to disturb its cleanliness. Content, she said a quick prayer and headed indoors.

After the disruption she caused in the stables, she felt compelled to be useful and rushed to the kitchen to help Mrs. Fitz with the noon and evening meals. Her arrival was met gratefully by a frazzled looking Mrs. Fitz, who was simultaneously corralling a group of young boys, including Broden, and instructing a woman on the proper way to grind barley, all while rapidly slicing up a collection of carrots and turnips.

“Ah, Maggie, it’s good of you to come help, especially after we roused you so early in the morning. I sent Miss Finnemore home after the burns and then Miss Craig had to leave to tend to her sick child, so we’re a bit under-manned at the moment.”

“I’m just happy I can be of use to someone.”

Mrs. Fitz stopped chopping for a second. “You’re always of use, dear,” she said, resuming her work. “Have you skinned a rabbit before? I’ve been asking the men to skin them after the hunt but apparently Dougal’s told them we’re not busy and can handle it ourselves. Can you imagine? I have half a mind to take it up with Himself, were I not worried of bothering him.”

In a different person, this could sound like complaining or an excuse to shirk her duties, but with Mrs. Fitz, it was more a statement of fact. She never stopped working the whole time she talked, moving on from carrots and turnips to potatoes, then chives, sometimes checking on bread baking in a large brick oven without a single pause in her slicing.

“I’ve skinned a rabbit,” Maggie said. Her father had shown her how to trap and prepare small game when she was young and it had come in handy many nights since she first left Donegal. She made her way over to a table in the corner, piled high with dead grey rabbits. She picked the first one up and pushed the knee joint out until it broke through the hide. She was about to start peeling back the hide when Mrs. Fitz yelled, “Who’s been tracking water through my kitchen? Was it you, Broden?” She gestured to Broden with her knife, looking both stern and ready to forgive quickly.

“No, Mrs. Fitz.”

Maggie looked down at the hem of her skirt. It was dripping water onto the floor and into her shoes, which were so waterlogged already that she hadn’t noticed.

“I think it was me, Mrs. Fitz,” Maggie said.

Mrs. Fitz gave her a thorough appraisal, concluding, “You’re sopping wet.”

“Yes.”

“Well, you better go change and come back when you won’t be leaving puddles all over my floor.”

Maggie bowed her head, staring into one of those puddles.

“Ah,” Mrs. Fitz said with recognition, “Follow me, dear. Miss Drummond, the kitchen’s yours til I return.” In the hallway, Mrs. Fitz turned to Maggie. “You don’t have another dress, do you?”

Maggie shook her head.

“That’s fine,” Mrs. Fitz assured her. “We’ll just find you a new one and you’ll be fit to enter my kitchen in no time.”

“I wouldn’t want to trouble you.”

“No trouble at all,” Mrs. Fitz, who had already begun a brisk walk down the hall, called over her shoulder. Telling by the hustle and bustle in the kitchen, this was clearly untrue but Maggie appreciated her saying it nonetheless.

Maggie followed Mrs. Fitz to a musty room full of wooden trunks. They all looked the same to Maggie but somehow Mrs. Fitz could tell the difference, heading purposefully to a dark chestnut trunk in the far corner. Opening it up, she sifted through a pile of dresses—Maggie had never seen such a surplus before—finally settling on a brown skirt with a blue bodice. Handing them to Maggie, she rifled through the box again, coming back up with a corset.

“I think you’re filling out a bit, dear.” Mrs. Fitz put her hands on Maggie’s waist and nodded. “This,” she held up the corset, “will be a better fit.”

Maggie blushed.

“It’s a good thing,” Mrs. Fitz said. “Men prefer a woman with some flesh.”

Maggie cringed at the thought. She wanted to tell Mrs. Fitz she didn’t care what men preferred but she didn’t want to be rude when Mrs. Fitz was being so generous with her. Feeling the stays of the too-tight corset pressing into her, she remembered rushing to put it on before going to wake Jamie—something she had not done before dressing to attend to Miss Finnemore—and wondered if such a statement of apathy would even be true.

Instead, Maggie said, “Thank you, Mrs. Fitz. This is very kind.”

“Think nothing of it, lass.” Mrs. Fitz smiled at her. “Well, try it on.”

Maggie clumsily shook herself out of her old dress, a faded green that had been pretty once but had since grown so discolored it now always appeared dirty. She began to untie the corset but Mrs. Fitz swatted her hand away and proceeded to unlace it herself. She helped Maggie fit the new corset, pulling it more tightly than Maggie thought necessary, especially given her acknowledgement of Maggie’s “filling” figure. She then aided Maggie in sliding the skirt and bodice over her head. When she was fully dressed, Maggie looked down, surveying herself. She looked better, she decided. Not exactly refined but not quite as rough as she had before and certainly less so than she had when she first arrived at the castle. The skirt didn’t quite reach the ground, stopping just short of her ankles but she didn’t mind. Mrs. Fitz noted this apologetically but assured her that none of the men would gossip about such a thing or think less of her because of it. Maggie nodded, thinking that, while she would not want to wear exposed ankles to Church, the degree of ankle coverage would likely make no difference at the castle, where most men gave her a wide enough birth to begin with and the more lecherous ones were undeterred by clothing, as Rupert had proven just nights before.

Despite the short length, the new clothes pleased her greatly. On the road, she had started to feel somewhat feral, her humanity slowly broken down by each successive mortification—the stares of men, the attacks of animals, the nights spent sleeping in a stranger’s barn—all of it reflected in her shabby dress. This new dress made her feel like more of a person.

“Thank you, Mrs. Fitz.” She felt a wetness in the corners of her eyes and blinked ferociously, forcing it to stay put. “This means a lot to me.”

Mrs. Fitz nodded and patted her gently on the arm before scurrying back off to her kitchen.

In the short while they had been gone, the overworked, wobbly productivity Mrs. Fitz had maintained had descended into madness. Rupert and Angus were sitting in the corner, drinking ale and sneaking sips to the group of boys now surrounding them, as well as scraps of food for themselves, both of which had prompted argument from one of the women. Meanwhile, two women were quarreling about the proper size to cut the potatoes, while Miss Drummond yelled at them to “just leave it alone and cut them however you damn well please.” Right under Miss Drummond’s feet, two boys tormented a third, shorter one, holding his hat just out of reach.

“Saints preserve us,” Mrs. Fitz muttered. Then, more loudly, “Rupert, Angus, are you being of any help here? No? Then I suggest you get out and take the boys with you.” The two men opened their mouths to protest but quickly shut them in unison at the look on Mrs. Fitz’s face. “Walter, you stay here,” she added, gesturing to one of the boys, who stayed behind, walking resentfully to his mother, the woman who had been arguing with Rupert and Angus. “And Miss Peale, you should cut the potatoes the width of a hair ribbon on all sides.” She now turned her attention to the fighting boys by Miss Drummond. “Didn’t you hear me? You run along too. Out with you.”

As the boys ran by, Maggie saw the smaller one was Broden, now being pushed forward by swift smacks of his hat, more insulting than painful.

“Broden, why don’t you help me with the rabbits?” she called.

“I don’t know how, Mistress.”

“I’ll teach you. Come on.” The other two boys stood in the doorway warily, still in possession of the hat. “You’ll need your cap,” Maggie added.

“Why?” One of the boys asked.

“You never know what can happen when you’re skinning rabbits. One of them might still be alive.” She bent down to look the boy in the eye, then lurched forward suddenly, imitating the movement of a hopping rabbit. “Best to be prepared for every eventuality.”

“How would a cap help?” the second boy asked.

“Are you questioning me?” she asked, rising up to her full height, emphasizing her tallness compared to them, as they had with Broden.

“No, Mistress.”

“You better not be. Now, give over.” She watched them unblinkingly as they handed the hat back to Broden and left. Amazed at the amount of authority she was able to command, she turned to Broden and shrugged.

“Thank you, Mistress.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about, Broden. You’re the one doing me the favor.”

Broden nodded bashfully but then picked his head up. “How did you learn to skin a rabbit?”

“My father taught me.”

“Oh. My father would have taught me but he died before I was born.”

“I’m so sorry.”

“It’s all right, Mistress. I never knew him so I can’t really miss him.”

This sounded logical but Maggie knew from growing up without any connection to her mother’s family members, many of whom were still alive, that this wasn’t how loss or absence worked. Echoing that sentiment, Broden added, “Sometimes I do miss him actually but I shouldn’t.”

“I don’t think there’s anything wrong with missing your father. It means that you were bonded before you were even born and that’s a bond that lives forever.” Broden smiled at Maggie, who continued, “You have to promise me something. I’m going to teach you how to do this so when you meet someone who doesn’t know how, you have to teach them, all right?”

“All right.”

“Good. Now watch closely.” Maggie picked up the rabbit she had been working on earlier and showed the knee to Borden. “See what I did here? You want to take the knee and push it forward, while pulling back on the hide in the other direction.”

“We’re not going to use a knife?”

“No, this way is better.”

“Why?”

Maggie thought about that for a moment and realized she had no good answer.

“I don’t really know,” she said. “That’s what my father always told me. Maybe he just didn’t trust me with a knife.”

Maggie felt the cool metal of the knife she always kept on her person pressing against her calf. Her father never had taught her how to defend herself, likely assuming he or a future husband would always be there to protect her. An older woman from the colonies, also travelling alone, had given her the knife early on in her ramblings around northern Ireland, showing her how to hold it and where to strike for maximum effectiveness—from the front, the left side of the heart, making sure to avoid the breastbone, and from the back, up and under the last rib, right into the kidneys. Maggie had hoped the woman would invite her to journey with her but she hadn’t and Maggie had left grateful for the training.

 “Let’s see you try it,” she said to Broden, guiding his hand to the knee of his rabbit. “You just need to push harder,” she said, seeing him struggling, “And trust that it’ll work.” She cheered for him when he finally got it and patted him on the back when he finished skinning the entire creature. “Excellent! Now you’re ready to survive on your own,” she said, the same words her father had said to her when she had prepared her first rabbit. Seeing the alarmed look on Broden’s face, she added, “Not that you’ll have to, of course.” Her father had said those words to her as well. She put an arm around Broden and squeezed gently, telling herself that, living up at the castle with all these people around, Broden would not be thrust into the world alone as she had been. Still, she resolved to teach him to trap game just in case.

Hours later, the kitchen was full of the frankly unpleasant scent of dead rabbit, a sharp departure from the usual rich smell of oats, carrots, and potatoes. Broden and Maggie carried the rabbits outside to wash them and then deposited half in the larder to be salted and eaten later and half back in the kitchen with Mrs. Fitz who set them to roast over the fire. The odor lingered on their clothes and Maggie made a note to lay both of her dresses by the fireplace overnight, letting them dry and air out.

She ate dinner in the kitchen that night, listening to Miss Drummond tell an uproarious—and unflattering—story about the time her husband had returned from a night at the local tavern so drunk he mistook the braying of their mule for the mocking laughter of a man and challenged it to a fight, which the mule proceeded to win. Miss Drummond’s eyes lit up as she spoke and even acted out parts of the story, wiggling her fingers above her head to symbolize the mule’s ears and swinging her head wildly to show how the animal had ducked her husband’s punch and thwacked him hard in the chest, knocking him down. As soon as the story was done, however, Maggie noticed a sadness creep over Miss Drummond’s face and later heard Mrs. Fitz say, “For all your help today. Keep it away from Mr. Drummond, aye?” while handing her a few coins.

Maggie resolved to be especially kind to Miss Drummond the next time their paths crossed and exited into the hallway, where she ran into Jamie—literally, her head banging against his shoulder.

After a mutual exchange of apologies, Jamie asked, “How did you spend the rest of your day?”

“I spent the day skinning rabbits.”

“Is that a joke?”

“No.”

“Really?”

“Yes,” Maggie said. “At least thirty of them. Here, smell my clothes.”

She angled her arm to bring the crook of her elbow—where the smell was strongest—up to his face before realizing how disgusting she was being and drawing it back.

“I can smell it fine enough as it is,” Jamie said. “But it’s not that different from your usual scent.”

Maggie laughed and punched him on the arm a bit harder than she meant to.

Jamie smiled. “A joke, of course. I did smell it but I figured it had something to do with your new dress, which I thought was odd because it’s really very, uh, lovely but I thought maybe it came from some old trunk that Mrs. Fitz had stored away somewhere or… something of the sort.”

Maggie smiled at Jamie’s embarrassment but quickly tried to hide it. She hadn’t expected him to notice her clothing but was pleased that he had. “It did come from an old trunk but the smell was all my doing. I hope I haven’t ruined it forever.”

“I hope not also. It suits you very well.” Jamie looked at her approvingly. Not like Rupert who had made her feel exposed or like a man who felt his approval was needed, sitting on a perch, deciding which women were and were not good enough for public viewing, but like a man who saw her and enjoyed seeing her, without expecting anything in return. It was a new and wonderful experience.

“What’s next for you this evening?” Maggie asked.

“I’m off to bed. Some lunatic woke me up before dawn this morning.”

“I can’t imagine who you’d be talking about.”

They walked together without saying much until they reached Maggie’s door.

“Thank you for joining me this morning,” Maggie said.

“Thank you for inviting me.”

“Good night, Jamie.”

Maggie began to close her door but was stopped by Jamie’s hesitant voice.

“There’s something I wanted to discuss, Maggie. I’ve been thinking that, now that we’re both recovered, maybe we should not be going to each other’s rooms as we have been.”

“As _I_ have been,” Maggie corrected.

“It was not my idea, actually,” Jamie added quickly. “It was Murtagh who first mentioned it. I suppose I could tell him to sod off or—”

“No,” Maggie interrupted, “I think Murtagh’s right. I’ll just be seeing you around the castle then.” She began to close the door again.

“Frequently,” Jamie said. “I hope.”

“Yes, I do too.”

Maggie shut the door and leaned her back against it, feeling a heavy disappointment form in her throat and drop into her gut.


	10. Nollaig Chridheil

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Christmas at Castle Leoch

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm really into matching music to stories and there are some relevant songs for this chapter: the original Irish version of “Be Thou My Vision" for the beginning of the chapter, “Volcanic Jig” by Natalie MacMaster for the dancing scene, “Never Be the Sun” by Dolores Keane for the stargazing scene, and “Traveller” by Shaun Lochalsh for the whole chapter.

Maggie did not see much of Jamie for the following week. The whole castle was busy preparing for the Christmas Eve festivities and there was finally plenty of work for her. She spent most of her time in the kitchen, chopping, stirring, and kneading, only leaving to sweep the great hall and the passageways leading to it—a task Mrs. Fitz insisted be undertook the week before Christmas, even though each meal set the floors right back to their original, dirty state. Without the option of meeting Jamie at his now off-limits chamber door, the only time she was able to see him was at dinner in the great hall and she had been electing to eat her meals with the women in the kitchen.

The previous week’s snow stayed on the ground and the day before Christmas Eve brought yet more snow. Maggie took a short break from the hot kitchen to taste the crisp coldness of snowy air, finding an appropriate pretense in her claim that she was taking Broden and some of the other children outside in order to get them out from under foot. While ducking a snow ball thrown at her by an especially tiny little girl, she saw Jamie in the stables tending to the horses, their eyes meeting briefly across the distance, but chose not to go talk to him, quickly looking away and busying herself with resolving some dispute between the children.

It wasn’t that she was mad at Jamie for what he had said. That wouldn’t be fair, especially given that the idea that they shouldn’t visit each other’s bedchambers had come from Murtagh. She was, in fact, quite struck by the correctness of this statement and, as the initiator of these visits, terribly embarrassed. She realized she had become too familiar too quickly and the thought mortified her. Best to keep her distance, for now at least. At the same time, she didn’t want Jamie to think she was cross with him—because she wasn’t—or that she was avoiding him—although of course she was. Luckily, she was far too occupied by work to spend much time ruminating on her past impropriety, or to even think much about Jamie at all, or so she told herself.

The morning of Christmas Eve, Maggie rose early. She had always found it hard to sleep the night before, too filled with excitement about the merriment to come. Back home, Christmas had been her favorite holiday. Her family could not afford to put on much of a celebration but they enjoyed sitting around the table together, often eating a fish that her father had caught in the river—salmon if they were lucky, served with potatoes. During times of relative prosperity, they’d invite over any neighbors facing leaner times than they. When Maggie’s family experienced hardship, neighbors would sometimes include the family in their evening meals. As poor harvests were usually shared by all in the region, there were quite a few years when no one was prosperous enough to feed his neighbors and they all went hungry, comforted by a mix of church and strong drink. Even these years brought joy, however, providing a time when everyone was allowed, perhaps even required, to forget about their struggles and pray for a better year ahead, truly believing, if only for a day, that God would provide it for them.

Maggie’s favorite Christmas memory came from one of these lean years. Their neighbors’ old cow had fallen sick and died, depriving the family of milk and cheese to feed themselves or trade at market. Without a larder, the family was not able to salt and preserve the meat well enough to last them through the winter. As such, they decided to invite the entire village to their home to share the meat before it spoiled. Everyone brought what they could—potatoes, greens, milk, cheese, fish, alcohol—hoping to leave some of it behind at the end of the night to aid the family as much as possible. The meat was tough and flavorless but the conversation was lively and the usual scarcity of any kind of meat made the meal a rare treat, regardless of the actual taste. After the meal, everyone stayed at the family’s home, helping to clean and then all joining together in quiet prayer, something that each family traditionally did privately in its own home. At midnight, they all walked to the candle-lit church together. Maggie remembered the flash of the candles reflected in the gleaming eyes of each person, all seemingly keeping the fear at bay, graced by momentary serenity. After Mass, the peaceful spell had been broken but replaced not by fear, but jubilation, and—if she was being entirely honest—a good deal of drunkenness. At the end of the night, close to dawn, Maggie’s mother stood up and began to sing. The room feel silent as her clear, straight tone filled the air.

“Bí thusa mo shúile a Rí mhór na ndúil,” she sang in Gaelic.

_Be Thou my Vision, O Lord of my heart;_

_Naught be all else to me, save that Thou art._

_Thou my best Thought, by day or by night,_

_Waking or sleeping, Thy presence my light._

_Be Thou my Wisdom, and Thou my true Word;_

_I ever with Thee and Thou with me, Lord;_

_Thou my great Father, I Thy true son;_

_Thou in me dwelling, and I with Thee one._

At the time, Maggie had felt herself wrapped in the words, comforted by them not just because she believed them, but also because they came from her mother. Everyone it seemed had breathed the music in and out, trying to consume it and hold onto it for the coming year, a year in which they all suspected they would have a special need of God’s guidance and presence.

Maggie had grown up listening to her mother sing in the privacy of their own home, but, until then, she had never heard her mother sing in public and her mother never sang at any gathering after that either. Maggie supposed her mother must have known how much their neighbors needed those words. Perhaps, she needed them as well. Maggie had certainly needed them since. Never being much of a singer, she had spent many a cold night outdoors over the past two years humming it to herself, remembering the words and clinging to their promise.

This year, her future seemed more secure than it had in quite some time but, in a world without her mother or father, she still relied on the song for comfort. She woke up before dawn with it ringing in her head, knowing she wouldn’t be able to fall back asleep but not minding. Stretching her arms up and leaning to her right, she tumbled out of bed, then made her way downstairs to see if she could be of any assistance.

It was still dark but already the kitchen was filled with more women than it could reasonably accommodate. The walls reverberated with the hard snapping sound of vegetables being chopped and the soft, steady rhythm of dough being kneaded. Maggie stood in the doorway, looking for an empty space or open knife and finding none. Eventually, Mrs. Fitz’s head popped up from the throng around the fireplace, her always frizzy red hair now bursting out from under her cap in voluminous spider-leg tendrils.

“Nothing for you yet, dear,” she said to Maggie. “Come back at eleven.”

Maggie nodded and happily left, glad to be out of the hot, humid room. She ran back to her chamber, grabbed her cloak, and headed outside. Since coming to the castle, she had been spending a good deal more time indoors than she was accustomed to. At first, she had been thrilled, eager to leave behind nights spent in barns and forests for the guarantee of a warm bed, but ultimately she grew bored of living between windowless, stone walls and longed for more tastes of life outside.

As she walked out the door, the sky was brightening slightly, cast a light blue shine over the snow. Her mother used to tell her that silently taking in the nature around oneself—a gift from God—was one of the most prayerful things a person could do. She tried to quiet her mind but failed as thoughts of Mass and the coming feast and her mother—and even Jamie—stubbornly pushed their way through. She turned instead to trying to come up with the English names for her surroundings, drawing on a combination of Jamie’s lessons and her own independent study. She had excitedly asked him the name for snow and he had also taught her the English words castle, horse, stable, hill, and mountain—although she could never remember the difference between the last two. She wandered about, practicing sentences such as, “My name is Maggie,” and “I live at Castle Leoch,” until the sun rose, calling more people out of their beds and to their chores.

By the castle walls, she encountered a man chopping firewood and noticed two more chopping blocks and axes next to him. After watching him with fascination for a while, she decided to approach.

“May I help you?”

The man looked up, seemingly surprised to see her.

“Have you ever done this before?” he asked.

“No.” There had never been enough trees in Donegal to ever considering burning them. “But I’d love to give it a try.”

“Go ahead then,” the man said, returning to his work.

Maggie took a log from the large pile beside her and balanced it on the block. Placing both hands at the end of the axe handle, she lifted it over her head.

“Hold up,” the man said. “Grip it closer to the head with your right hand. Wouldn’t want you chopping off your foot.”

“Thank you.” Maggie nodded at the man.

She adjusted her hands, lifted the axe back up, and brought it down on the log, bringing her whole body with it and almost losing her balance as she fell forward. Righting herself, she realized that the axe had not gone clean through the log and was lodged inside it.

The man glanced over. “Hit it again.”

She picked up the axe and the log attached to it and hit them against the block. Nothing. She tried again, harder this time, and felt the axe bury itself deeper inside the log. She let out a muffled sound of frustration, causing the man to walk over, take the axe from her and bang it and the log against the stump, splitting the log clean in two. He nodded at Maggie, then returned to his station, picked up his axe, and continued with his work.

“I’m sorry,” Maggie said. “I’m probably being a nuisance.”

“No,” the man said, not even pausing as his axe arced through the air.

“Ah, good.” Maggie set another log on her stump, lifted the axe, and pitched herself forward. Her arms shook slightly as the axe stopped half-way through the log yet again. She took a deep breath, wrinkling her nose at the way her corset limited the expansion of her chest and stomach, and slammed the log down onto the stump as hard as she could, feeling the axe split through the wood. She smiled and reached for another log.

“This is a sight, isn’t it, Angus?”

Maggie straightened up to see Rupert and Angus standing in front of her, their arms crossed. She noticed Rupert’s eyes locked on her chest, following the movement of her body as she stood up.

“You have women working for you now, Ealair?” asked Angus, chuckling.

“I wouldn’t have to if you two roused yourselves early enough to come help me, as your laird expressly asked you to.”

“Christ, Rupert, I think we’ve made him angry.”

“Must have,” Rupert said. “That’s more words than I’ve heard Ealair speak since last Christmas.”

“Hmmf.” Ealair set a log on his stump and went back to work. “Go on, Mistress. Show them how it’s done.”

“I doubt she could do that,” said Rupert. “She looks like a magpie pecking at the ground.”

“Or like one of those little French monks, bowing before the Lord.”

“Or like a baby first learning to walk and absolutely muffing it.”

“Or like a whore giving an especially enthusiastic—Ah! What did you do that for?” Angus rubbed his arm angrily, where Rupert had punched him.

“That was too far,” Rupert said. “She is a lady after all, even if she doesn’t act like one.”

“All I know is she’s a better worker than you lazy dolts,” Ealair said.

Maggie felt her cheeks redden as the men talked about her like she couldn’t hear them. Determined to prove her competence—and ability to defend herself to all of them, even Ealair—she swung the axe again. It refused to cut all the way through the log but this time Maggie knew what to do next. She hit the log on the stump, staring at Angus as she did so. The log split cleanly in two.

“Good,” Ealair said. “Now, as you swing, slide your right hand down the handle.”

Maggie nodded, lifted the axe above her head, slid her right hand as she swung it, and brought it down half a foot to the right of the stump, where it became stuck in the ground.

“Daingead,” she muttered as Rupert and Angus laughed.

She tried again, this time focusing more on the log than the men around her. She steadied her arms and swung the axe straight through the log in one clean sweep. She let out an involuntary squawk of excitement.

“Look. She’s so pleased with herself,” Rupert said, smirking at her. Then he added, “Well done, lass.”

“Aye.” Ealair nodded at her.

“Now it’s time to let the men take over,” Rupert said, rolling up his sleeves.

“When I’ve just learned how to do it properly?” Maggie said. “I think not.”

“What do you expect us to do with ourselves then?” asked Angus.

“Whatever you normally do during your idle time. I try not to expend too much thought on your leisure activities, Mr. Mhor, especially after I’ve just eaten my breakfast.”

“Now, you listen,” Angus said, approaching with his finger pointed threateningly at her.

Maggie raised the axe casually and held it in front of her, smiling sweetly but also pulling her shoulders back to emphasize her full height. Angus stopped, his eyes on the axe. He opened his mouth to say something but nothing came out. Instead he turned his back to her and brushed her off with a dismissive wave of the hand. Rupert performed a mock bow before hurrying after Angus.

“Always a pleasure, Miss Ó Broin,” he called over his shoulder.

“Hmmf.” Ealair shook his head and went back to his work, Maggie following suit.

Hours later, hundreds of split pieces of wood lay by their feet, ready for the fire. Maggie’s shoulders, arms, and back ached pleasantly, reminding her of days on her family’s farm. She rolled her shoulders, thanked Ealair for his instruction, and headed inside to see what worked waited for her in the kitchen.

She spent the rest of the day plucking pheasants, stirring soup, sweeping, and generally attending to any needs that arose. A few hours before the feast was set to begin, Maggie wondered aloud when they’d all be attending Mass. She had assumed the village would hold a midnight Mass but there didn’t seem to be any planned break in the feasting to allow for this.

“We won’t be going to Mass, dear,” Mrs. Fitz answered her.

Maggie furrowed her brow. She had not regularly attended Mass since leaving Donegal and had felt too shy to enter the village church after so much time away but she had never missed a Christmas Mass. “Is it tomorrow morning, then?” she asked.

“No.” Mrs. Fitz looked puzzled. “It’s outlawed.”

“Outlawed? By who?”

“The Kirk, the English, the government.” Mrs. Fitz shrugged her shoulders. “To be Catholic is illegal here and the Kirk looks down especially on Christmas celebrations. They think it’s too pagan.” She paused. “And papist.”

“That’s horrible.”

“Aye. It’s not right but most folks here have never known any different.” Seeing the downcast look on Maggie’s face, Mrs. Fitz added. “Dougal MacKenzie holds a bit of a service Christmas day.”

“Really? I wouldn’t have thought of him as an especially religious man.”

“He’s not. Just stubborn as a mule. He’s usually still drunk from the night before and there’s less talk of God and the birth of the Christ and more talk of English oppression. Silly of me to even mention it. It’s really more to be avoided than sought after. Or so I advise during private discussions such as this.”

With this last line, Mrs. Fitz leaned in conspiratorially, indicating her desire to keep any less than complimentary mentions of the laird’s brother out of his earshot.

“I appreciate the guidance,” Maggie said. “And I’ll be sure to be sparing in who I share it with.”

Mrs. Fitz nodded, then turned her head toward some commotion by the fire. “Mrs. Drummond, what are you doing to that pig?”

At eight, the feast began in earnest. Maggie poked her head into the hall to see it illuminated by giant circular candelabras and, she was proud to see, a roaring wood fire. Men and women milled about the tables, the men dressed much the same as they always were with perhaps more elaborately tied plaids. The women, on the other hand, looked quite different, most of them wearing skirts that Maggie found comically full—she wondered how they even sat down—but overall quite elegant, with their well-styled hair and slightly brighter hues of green and blue. Maggie blew a frizzy strand of hair out of her eyes, shuddering to think of what she would look like compared to these women. As the night progressed, course after course passed beneath her nose, making her mouth water. She found the opulence of the feast both exhilarating and somewhat grotesque, considering how many people throughout Donegal, and she had to assume the Highlands as well, were struggling to feed themselves. With that mild resentment in mind, she grabbed an apple garnishing a tray holding an entire pig before it made its way out of the kitchen and bit into it.

“My dear,” Mrs. Fitz called to her from across the kitchen.

Maggie quickly hid the apple behind her back and tried to discreetly stop the juice that was running down her chin with her tongue. Mrs. Fitz laughed.

“Goodness me. I’m not angry. Give yourself a few minutes rest to enjoy the food.”

Mrs. Fitz helped herself to an apple as well without pausing her own work and nodded as Maggie went over to join a small group of women gathered around a roasted pheasant and tray of parsnips. One of the women handed Maggie a tankard, which Maggie drank from heartily assuming it was water. A slight burning sensation travelled down her throat and she coughed. As some of the women turned to look at her, Maggie said somewhat stupidly, “That’s not water.”

“No it’s not,” said one of the younger women in the circle.

Maggie took a smaller, more tentative drink, this time tasting a blend of bitterness and sweet honey and enjoying a muted, pleasant warmth settling in her chest.

“It’s mead,” said the younger woman. “We make it ourselves.”

“While the men out there drink the laird’s fancy wine or their own, terrible ale,” added another.

“Thank you,” Maggie said.

When she had eaten her fill and her tankard was empty, she handed it back to the young woman and moved to return to work. The woman, however, stopped her by refilling the mug and presenting it back to her.

“Thank you, but I can’t. I need to get back to work.”

“You can drink while you work, no?”

“I don’t know.”

“Ah, go on,” she said, forcing the mead into Maggie’s hands. “Nollaig chridheil.” She winked at Maggie.

“Nollaig chridheil,” Maggie repeated. Merry Christmas.

By the time Maggie had downed the second tankard, her ladling out of the fig and barley pudding was becoming a bit sloppy. Her mother had never allowed her to drink alcohol when she was growing up, not even after she reached fifteen, and her father, who starting sneaking her drinks on her fifteenth Christmas, had only allowed her one glass of ale at a time. She also suspected that this mead was a fair bit stronger than the ale to which she was accustomed. After she had finished her haphazard portioning out of the dessert, she scanned the kitchen for further cooking tasks but didn’t find any. Lively fiddle music began to drift into the kitchen and Maggie went to the kitchen door to see that many of the guests had stopped feasting and were now dancing in the center of the hall. Mrs. Fitz sent out some of the young girls to collect dishes and cutlery while instructing the rest of them to begin cleaning the kitchen. Some of the women started dancing and spinning one another as they worked, no doubt infected with the cheer of the festivities, as well as the livening of the alcohol. As the night wore on, Mrs. Fitz sent the mothers home to put their children to bed, leaving just herself, Maggie, and a few girls left to tidy up. Walking by the door while sweeping, Maggie spotted Jamie dancing enthusiastically with a small, blonde girl. Mrs. Fitz must have noticed Maggie lingering because she wandered over to watch the dancing as well.

“Who’s the girl with Jamie?” Maggie asked, watching as both the girl and Jamie threw their heads back in laughter.

“That’s the tavern owner’s daughter, Aileen. Nice girl, very pretty. Isn’t it nice to see the lad so happy after all that’s happened?”

“Aye, it is.”

“Don’t worry, lass. I’m sure he’ll come looking for you next.”

“What?” Maggie tore her eyes away from Jamie and Aileen to look at Mrs. Fitz. “I’m sure I would never expect such a thing.”

Mrs. Fitz raised her eyebrows but didn’t say anything, leaving Maggie to steal surreptitious glances at the dancers as she swept around the rest of the kitchen. On her third pass by the door, Maggie was almost run over by a clearly inebriated Rupert and Angus who stumbled in looking for Mrs. Fitz.

“Come dance with us,” Rupert said, grabbing at Mrs. Fitz’s hand.

“Oh, I couldn’t. There’s too much work to be done here.”

“You work too hard, woman,” Angus slurred. “Why don’t you let us show you a bit of fun?”

“Oh no,” Mrs. Fitz protested but Maggie noticed for the first time that evening that Mrs. Fitz’s usual bonnet was gone, replaced by a delicately balanced mass of curls. She was also wearing a deep purple dress, a wardrobe change that had somehow escaped Maggie’s attention amidst all the activity in the kitchen.

“Go on, Mrs. Fitz,” she said. “I can finish up.”

“You’re sure?”

Maggie nodded.

“All right, then.” Mrs. Fitz turned to Rupert and Angus and allowed herself to be practically carried out into the hall. Maggie smiled watching Mrs. Fitz dance with Angus, laughing until her face turned as red as his.

The other girls slowly trickled out one by one as various young men came calling for them, eventually leaving Maggie alone with the remaining mess. She didn’t particularly mind. The dirty plates had already been taken out back to the well and washed and she had swept the floor so much she was no longer sure what she was seeing was actually dirt and not bits of stone the bristles of her broom had worn away. She began scrubbing the large stone slab before the fire when a man clearing his throat behind her made her turn.

It was Jamie, wearing his tartan draped across one shoulder, his red hair slightly tamer than usual. Maggie jumped, startled to see him despite the fact that he had clearly made his presence known.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “I didn’t mean to sneak up on you.”

“It’s fine. You didn’t.”

“I’ve been looking everywhere for you,” Jamie said taking a step closer. “Why aren’t you out enjoying the festivities?”

“I was needed here. I have to earn my keep, seeing as this is the only time I do any work around here.”

“I wouldn’t say that.” Jamie paused. “The thing is, Maggie, I’m beginning to wonder if you may have been avoiding me.”

“You think I’d stay hidden away during a feast just to avoid you? That’s ridiculous. I’ve had real work to do.”

“Glad to hear it. I wasn’t necessarily _thinking_ you were avoiding me, more just concerned since we haven’t spoken in a while.”

“Well, there was no need to be concerned,” Maggie snapped, the harshness in her force surprising her. “I’m sorry. I’m being difficult.”

Jamie smiled. “I’ve come to expect nothing less.”

Maggie tried to be stern but found herself smiling as well. “If you must know, I think I _was_ avoiding you. A bit.”

“Why?”

“Well, with what you said about us not going to each other’s chambers, I was so embarrassed, I—”

“I’m sorry,” Jamie cut in. “I never should have said anything. Forget I did.”

“No, you were right.”

“Ah, I’m not so sure. Anyway, I’ve brought a peace offering.” Jamie raised his right hand, in which he held a glass bottle filled with a deep purple liquid. “Colum’s rhenish.”

“What’s that?”

“Wine and very strong wine at that. You have to be careful with it but I thought you might like to try it.”

Jamie poured two glasses and raised his. “Slàinte.”

“Slàinte.”

The rhenish was even sweeter than the mead but also smoother. Maggie found it hard to believe that it could really be that strong.

“Is everything you Highlanders drink sweet?” she asked before realizing she probably shouldn’t reveal the women’s secret brew.

“Do you not like it?”

“Oh no. I do, very much.”

Maggie reached for the bottle, filling both of their glasses up to the brim. Jamie frowned slightly but immediately began to smile as Maggie very carefully slurped up the top contents of her drink.

“I didn’t want to spill on myself,” Maggie said.

“Go easy or you’ll be spilling on yourself no matter how hard you try not to.”

They both looked at the door as the musicians began a new, particularly uproarious tune.

“Have I sufficiently appeased you?” Jamie asked.

“That depends. Now that I’m no longer avoiding you, could we have another English lesson soon?”

“Aye. We’ll start tomorrow morning.”

“And I was never angry, Jamie.”

“Ah, good. Well then, let’s go dance.”

“I can’t. There’s too much to do here.” Maggie surveyed the empty kitchen, such a mess hours earlier, now miraculously tidy, making for a less than convincing claim. “Besides,” she added, “I don’t have anything appropriate to wear.”

She was wearing the new skirt and bodice Mrs. Fitz had given her but it was no match for the voluminous skirts and neatly arranged dresses of the women in the hall.

“You look fine,” Jamie said.

“I don’t.” Maggie looked down to see her skirt was covered in flour and her bodice was spotted with various sauce stains.

“Would you dance with me here in the kitchen, then?”

“I don’t know how.”

“Ah, there’s the real problem then.”

“No,” Maggie said. “The real problem is that I have chores to do and my clothes are dirty and I’m not ladylike enough for any of this.”

“I’ll teach you,” Jamie said excitedly. “Not how to be ladylike, I wouldn’t pretend to know, but how to dance at least. You’re already learning English, might as well take one step further toward civilization.”

Maggie rolled her eyes. “Fine,” she said, downing the rest of her glass and refilling it. “But I’ll need more of this.”

“All right then,” Jamie said moving out into the middle of the kitchen. “Well, first we want to stand facing each other like this. Then we dance toward each other with a kind of shuffle step. First the left leg out and then back together and then lead with your left again and then switch and do that with the right.”

Jamie skipped toward her but Maggie stayed still, her arms crossed in front of her.

“What?” he asked.

“You look ridiculous.”

“I look exactly as I’m supposed to look. Come on, let’s try it again.”

Jamie backed up and then began the shuffle step toward her with Maggie joining in.

“Then, we join hands in the middle and turn in a circle. Ordinarily, there would be another couple and we’d switch partners but, as it’s just us, I suppose we’ll just do another circle and then return to our places.”

Maggie complied, biting her lip to keep from giggling.

“All right. Now we do the same steps back to meet each other in the center and then we link arms and do another turn.”

Maggie tried to execute the shuffle step. It looked simple enough but her feet betrayed her, refusing to do as she directed them. She had to keep pausing to get the pattern right and she knew she was no longer in time with the music.

“Jamie, this is too ridiculous.”

Jamie threw his hands up in air. “Do people not dance in Donegal?”

“They do but it’s not as ordered as all this.”

“How would you dance if we were in Donegal, then?”

Maggie thought back to the last wedding she had attended at home. It had been in the spring and, while the air was still too chilly to comfortably hold an outdoor party, the bride’s family had insisted on it anyway. They had all danced feverishly to stave off the cold, their arms on each other’s shoulders as they danced in a circle, one of them occasionally jumping into the middle to perform his or her own improvisation. _That_ was dancing, not this regimented stepping.

“First,” Maggie said. “There’d be a good cluster of people. And we’d all gather in a circle and just dance around. Each person would do whatever they felt called to.”

“I can’t imagine that being much more dignified than what I just showed you.”

“Exactly,” Maggie said, reaching for her third glass of rhenish. Or was it her fourth? She had lost count. “That’s the point. It’s much less dignified, which is why it’s so much more enjoyable.”

She began prancing around the room, her arms and legs moving with wild abandon but this time somehow managing to keep pace with the music. During a particularly frenzied twirl, she spun herself right into Jamie, who threw his arms out to catch her. Her head stayed pressed against his chest for a bit too long. He smelled like earth and grass and sweat. When she drew her head back slightly, she noticed the brooch he wore to secure his plaid. It was different from the brooches she had seen the other men wearing. Jamie’s featured a stag’s head, encircled by the words, “Je suis prest.”

“What does it mean?” she asked absent-mindedly.

“What does what mean?”

Even with Jamie looking down at her, Maggie had to crane her neck to see into his eyes. Neither one of them took a step backward.

“The words on your brooch.”

“Je suis prest,” Jamie answered. “I am ready. It’s my clan’s motto, Clan Fraser, that is. Murtagh had it made for me. I suppose the one my father gave me is somewhere back home.”

Jamie blinked quickly.

“You can go back and get it someday,” Maggie said.

“Aye. I hope so.” Jamie’s eyes looked far away. He shook his head, as if to shake away the unwanted thoughts, and smiled. “All right, Maggie. Will you teach me how to dance your way?”

“There’s nothing to teach,” Maggie said, taking both of Jamie’s hands in hers, raising them above both their heads, and spinning herself underneath their arms. “Now you.”

Jamie sheepishly strolled under the bridge they had created.

“You’re tremendous at this,” Maggie said.

Jamie scoffed.

Still holding onto one another’s hands, they spun and leapt around the room, Maggie leading a somewhat perplexed Jamie along. Eventually, he relaxed and the pair practically galloped, moving in step with one another and with the music, laughing hysterically. Hours or minutes went by. Maggie couldn’t be sure which. When the musicians went home and the hall began to quiet down, Maggie let go of Jamie’s hands and lay down on the cool stone floor.

“What are you doing?” Jamie asked.

“It feels so refreshing,” Maggie said, “To lie against the stone.”

“You’ve overindulged.”

“I have not.”

“You have.”

Maggie let out a puff of air. “Perhaps. That rhenish is _very_ good, though.”

“It is indeed,” Jamie agreed as he picked up a wet rag and began scrubbing away at the stone by the fireplace.

“Oh no,” Maggie said. “I’ll do that.” She made no effort to get up and instead slowly shut her eyes, focusing on the steady movement of Jamie’s broad shoulders before closing to black.

“Maggie, Maggie, wake up.”

She woke up to find Jamie kneeling beside her, a hand on her shoulder. She blinked rapidly, trying to bring his face into focus. The room was moving too quickly around her and all she could clearly see of Jamie was his red hair, brightening her line of vision like the rising sun.

“The world is spinning.”

“I think it’s time to retire,” Jamie said, helping Maggie to sit up.

“No. There’s still one thing we need to do.”

Maggie hopped to her feet with surprising agility.

“If the world is spinning, Maggie, I really think you should go to bed.”

“The world’s always spinning, though,” Maggie said. “My mother taught me that. My father never believed it but I think it’s true. Do you?”

“I do.” Jamie smiled. “You’re very clever, aren’t you?”

“Yes. We’ve discussed this already.”

Jamie shook his head. “So, what is it that we still have to do?”

“We have to go look at the sky.”

“Why?”

“Because it’s Christmas.”

“Ah, yes, that makes perfect sense.”

“It does, though.”

It was a new moon and the world in front of Maggie was completely black, none of the orange glow of the castle escaping its walls. She reached for Jamie’s hand instinctively, worried about losing him in the dark.

“I can’t see anything,” she said.

“Look up.”

She turned her head upwards and was immediately met by so many points of light, she wondered how the air around her was not set aflame. In between the dots of white ran blue and purple streams, like ink bleeding from a garment.

“Do you see the bright star straight ahead?” Jamie asked.

“They’re all so bright.”

Jamie let go of Maggie’s hand to come stand behind her and point up at the sky from her vantage point. He leaned down until his head was almost on her shoulder and whispered, “That’s Polaris, the North Star.”

Maggie followed the line of his arm and saw a star shining more brightly than the others, hot white lined with cool blue.

“If you look down and to the left,” Jamie said, “That’s Orion. See his bow?” Without waiting for an answer, he continued, “And below him is Canis Major, his dog who follows him everywhere. Above it all, that crooked line, is Cassiopeia, the beautiful but vain queen of the Greeks. Or, Anu, if you like, the mother goddess of the Celts.”

“I didn’t know they all had names.”

“Aye. My father taught them to me when I was a boy.”

Maggie heard a catch in Jamie’s voice and tried to look into his face but it was too dark. When she felt a tear fall on her and heard Jamie clear his throat, she reached a hand back to find his.

“Who else do you think is looking at the sky tonight?” she asked.

“Likely many people,” Jamie said, sounding confused. Then, after a moment, he whispered, “I bet Jenny.” He swallowed. “When I was young, I went to live with Dougal for a year at his home in Beannachd. It was my first time away from home and I missed Jenny and my father so much. But before I left, he told me whenever I got homesick to look up at the stars and know he and Jenny were looking up at the same ones and thinking of me.”

Jamie had told her this story already, the day he had learned of his father’s death and they had sat telling stories of their families for hours.

“I know,” Maggie said. “That’s why I brought you out here. I hope it was not wrong of me.”

Jamie didn’t answer for a while. “No, it was not wrong, Maggie.” He squeezed her hand. “Not at all.”

“Do you suppose our parents are watching the sky as well? Their souls I mean.”

“I don’t ken what Heaven’s like but if it’s how they say, they’d have to be watching this. And watching us as well.”

Maggie began to shiver. With cold, fatigue, grief, happiness. Looking at the North Star, she sent a message up. _Nollaig chridheil, màthair, athair. You don’t need to worry about me anymore. I think I’ve found my place._

“Let’s go back in,” Jamie said, touching her trembling arm.

The light of the kitchen had dimmed but it still shocked Maggie as they entered. Both she and Jamie rubbed at their eyes, adjusting to the brightness and wiping away stray tears. Maggie knelt down by the dying fire, studying Jamie as he leaned against the stone tabletop. Loud footsteps and laughter interrupted her reverie and she and Jamie turned to see an unsteady man and woman clutching at each other, the man holding a flask.

“Pardon me,” the woman giggled. “Didn’t realize this room was already taken.”

Jamie and Maggie exchanged looks, breaking out into laughter as soon as the couple had left the room.

“They thought we were…” she began.

“They certainly thought something,” Jamie agreed.

“They were drunk,” Maggie said, rising from the fireplace but losing her balance and ending up back on the floor.

“Pot, kettle, Maggie.”

“What?”

“That’s like the pot calling the kettle black.”

“Pots don’t talk.”

“Yes, of course. It’s a metaphor. An expression. Meaning, you’re accusing them of being something that you also are.”

“Are you suggesting that I’m drunk?” Maggie asked, carefully standing up, gripping the mantel for support.

“I am.”

“See, I’m not, though. If I were, I would have understood what you meant. It’s a,” she searched for the right word, “a false assumption. I’m not entirely uneducated. I would have understood.”       

“All right then.” Jamie yawned. “I’ll walk you back to your room.”

“But, Jamie,” Maggie said with mock seriousness, “Wouldn’t that be improper?”

Jamie shook his head. “And you say you were never mad.” He held his arm out for her to lean on and Maggie took it gratefully, feeling the hard stone turn mushy under her feet.

“We’ll postpone the English lesson,” Jamie said when they reached her door.

“Why?”

“I expect you’ll be feeling a bit—well, have you ever been drunk before?”

“I’m _not_ drunk now.”

“Right. Well, I don’t expect you’ll be feeling too scholarly in the morning.”

“I always feel scholarly. I love to learn. I’m the most intellectual vagrant you’ve ever met.”

“Christ,” Jamie said. “I should not have let you drink so much.”

“You couldn’t’ve stopped me. I’m my own woman.”

“You certainly are,” Jamie said, opening the door for Maggie and ushering her inside. “How’s this then? You come find me when you wake up tomorrow, if you’re feeling up to a lesson. I’ll likely be with the horses.”

Maggie nodded in agreement.

“Merry Christmas, Maggie.”

“Merry Christmas, Jamie.”


	11. Captain Black Jack Randall

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Castle Leoch receives an unwelcome visitor

“Oh God.”     

Maggie woke up with a shudder, feeling her stomach lurch. Her head was being crushed in a vice, and somehow, at the same time, split apart at the seams. Hoping for some relief, she curled her legs up to her chest and buried her head in her knees. When this only increased her nausea, she changed course and carefully shifted to her back, stretching her arms and legs out as far as they would go, trying to make space for the poison welling up inside her to disperse. She remembered Jamie’s words from the night before and sighed. He was right, she did not feel particularly scholarly. Still, lying down wasn’t easing her discomfort and she couldn’t imagine it getting any worse. She was wrong.

As she set a foot on the ground, a bright light burst in front of her. She reached a hand to her head to ensure it was still there and hadn’t exploded—or imploded.

“Oh God.”

She had little idea of the time but figured it couldn’t be too early given the noise emanating from the passageway outside. Determined to prove Jamie wrong, she put the other foot down and went about getting dressed, finding herself unable to tolerate the pressure of the corset and skipping it all together.

Outside, Maggie gained more steadiness with each step but still felt fuzzy. Trying to pull herself out of her fog, she stopped at a well and splashed its icy water on her face.

“Oh God!” she yelled.

Behind her a man grunted and she turned to see Angus Mhor sitting against the castle wall.

“Daingead,” she muttered, anticipating the mockery to come.

Instead, Angus rubbed at his eyes, his head tottering on his shoulders. “Must ye be so loud, lass?”

“I was trying to wake myself up,” Maggie said. “I’m sorry.”

Angus smiled sympathetically. “Bit of a fuzzy head, eh?”

“A bit.”

“No shame in that.” Angus raised an invisible mug of ale, toasted Maggie, and fell sideways to the ground. “Happens to the best of us,” he said, his eyes closing.

Less than convinced of this last notion, Maggie shuffled down the hill to the stables, where she found Jamie, reading a book and eating from a basket of bread and cheese.

“I’m surprised to see you here,” he said.

“Why’s that?”

“Well, last night you were a bit, you know.” Jamie made a circle with his hand and brought it to his mouth to mimic drinking.

“I’m sure I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Maggie said, taking a seat.

“Good. So I take it you won’t mind accompanying me to hear the bagpipers play after this.”

Maggie paused. “No, I don’t mind at all.”

“Excellent. They always play after Dougal’s service. Should be playing in a little less than an hour.”

Maggie nodded.

“So, did you bring our books?” Jamie asked.

“I forgot,” Maggie said, then added slowly, praying Jamie would decline the offer, “I could go back and get them.”

“Ah no. We can just use what I’m reading.” He held the leather-bound book up and flipped to the inside cover. “Do you think you could read this?”

Maggie squinted at the words as if their legibility were the problem. The truth was English phonetics were still fairly mysterious to her.

“Rrr, Rropeensawn Croosawaye.”

Jamie smirked slightly but nodded his head. “Close. Definitely Close. Just remember that this letter,” he pointed at the “b,” “makes a baah sound, like a sheep.”

“Like a sheep?”

“Yes. Like a sheep.”

“Don’t condescend to me, Jamie Fraser.”

“I wasn’t. That’s just what it sounds like.”

“Well, I have the mental capacity to figure out letter sounds without you comparing them to farm animals. Just so you know.”

“I wasn’t aware of that.”

Maggie’s eyes narrowed.

“And this letter,” Jamie continued quickly, pointing out the “e,” “isn’t always pronounced.”

“Then what’s the point?”

“Well, it changes some of the other letters before it.”

“Right.”

“So, the title is actually _Robinson Crusoe_.”

Maggie nodded, uninterested.

“And it’s about a man, Crusoe, who’s marooned on an island all alone and how he survives,” Jamie said. “And there are cannibals and pirates and—”

“Pirates?” Maggie sat up straighter.

“And cannibals,” Jamie repeated, pleased by Maggie’s sudden engagement.

“And he has to fight them off all on his own?”

“Well, not all on his own. He rescues a man who he calls Friday, or Dihaoine we’d say, and then they fight together.”

“Why does he call him Friday?”

“Because that’s the day of the week Crusoe met him.”

“Didn’t he have a name before that?”

“Probably. But not a proper one.”

“Friday’s not a proper name either.”

“Right. But it’s a better name than whatever he had before.”

“Why?”

Jamie thought for a moment. “Because it’s easier to say.”

“Not for Friday.”

“Hmm?”

“Does Friday speak English?”

“Not at first.”

“Well, then the name Friday isn’t easier to say for him, is it? It’s harder.”

“I suppose.”

“This sounds like a stupid book.”

“Maggie.” Jamie rolled his eyes. “You were liking it just a minute ago.”

“This Robeensawn Crusoe sounds awful. What gives him the right to go around giving people new names?”

“I see your point, but—”

“That’s a very English thing to do, isn’t it?” Maggie interrupted.

“I suppose it is.” Jamie laughed.

“Why are you reading such horribly English books?”

“I’m glad you could make it out today, Maggie. You’re really very fun.”

Maggie crossed her arms, her finger poking through one of many small holes in her cloak. She shivered as a gust of wind passed through it. Jamie stood up to retrieve a blanket hanging over an empty stall door, which he brought back and draped across Maggie’s shoulders. It smelled like horses, like the foamy sweat she had seen clinging to them whenever Jamie exercised them. It was not entirely pleasant but also not entirely unpleasant. It smelled like energy and activity—like spirit, Jamie might say.

“Here,” Jamie said, holding out a piece of bread with cheese on top. “Have some of this. It’ll improve your mood.”

“Thank you.”

“At least, we can hope,” Jamie added.

Maggie found the bread hard to chew and even harder to swallow. She flinched as it dropped into her already churning stomach. She covered this up with a smile, not wanting to let Jamie see her discomfort and know he had been right about her drinking—or to give the impression that she didn’t appreciate his efforts to make her feel better.

“Should we look at the first few pages of this ‘horribly English’ book?” Jamie asked.

Maggie spent the next few minutes trying to decipher the words in front of her. She was really not equipped to read whole sentences in English, let alone an entire page, having only learned basic vocabulary thus far. The harder she focused, the less the words made sense, until they were swimming on the page, exacerbating her headache. She blinked several times then lay back in a pile of hay.

“Jamie, I’m dying.”

“I know.” Jamie reached into his kilt and pulled out a dried purple flower. “Butterbur. For the headache.”

Maggie took it from him and immediately placed it in her mouth.

“You’re very trusting,” Jamie said.

“Hmm?”

“You’re the healer, not me. What if I were wrong and handed you something poisonous?”

“At this point, I wouldn’t care.”

Maggie closed her eyes and felt Jamie’s arm touch hers as he reclined beside her.

“So, Maggie, I was right then. About the drinking.”

“Yes.”

“I don’t want to lord it over you, but—”

“Then don’t.”

Jamie sighed. “Fine.”

Maggie smiled, her eyes still closed. “You’re not so bad, Jamie Fraser,” she said, falling asleep against Jamie’s warm shoulder.

 

Maggie and Jamie’s English lessons intensified over the next few weeks with them convening every free moment they had. Pretty soon, Maggie was conducting simple conversations in English and reading more fluently as well—the reading, of course, practiced with the Book of Ruth, and not _Robinson Crusoe_.

Today Maggie ventured outside with her books and a bundle of food—bread, cheese, and even some roast duck left over from the night before—hoping Alec would allow Jamie at least enough time to eat a meal before calling him back to work. When she arrived at the stables, Jamie stood alone, brushing Oidhche with a cluster of hay.

“Spare some time for education?” she called to him.

Jamie nodded and smiled at Maggie, his eyes lighting up as she laid out the food.

“I should have known you’d be more excited to see the food than me,” she said. “I only brought it as a ploy to convince Alec to let you off.”

“I see,” Jamie said, his mouth already full of bread. “Well, Alec’s off looking at new horses to purchase so it was unnecessary.”

Within minutes, the bread and cheese were gone, and they sat delicately picking at the duck, savoring it.

“Mrs. Fitz is amazing,” Jamie said, waving around a bit of duck for emphasis. “Much better than our cook back home—although I did appreciate her efforts of course,” Jamie added hurriedly.

“I see I’ve scared you with my lecture on all the work women do while you men are still asleep.” Maggie smiled. She enjoyed hearing Jamie talk about his home so casually, without the sadness that had surrounded memories of Lallybroch when he first arrived. In the two years since she left Donegal, she had hardly talked about her home at all, never until she met Jamie.

“I’m glad you like the food,” Maggie said. “I didn’t _just_ pack it as an excuse to draw you away from work.”

“I know that. And thank you. Truly. This is delicious.” 

“It’s nothing. Quid pro quo.”

Jamie looked at her, puzzled.

“Quid pro quo,” she repeated, “Like an exchange. I feed you, you teach me.”

“I know. I just forgot you know Latin.” Jamie paused. “But not English.

Maggie turned to look at Jamie head-on, fixing him in place with her eyes like a mother catching a child in some misdeed. Jamie was sufficiently chastened.

“Which makes sense of course,” he continued, “given that you’re from Ireland and you’re living in Scotland now.”

“Where everyone should be speaking Gaelic.”

“Aye. Thank God we have an Irishwoman here to set us straight.”

“You’re very lucky.”

Maggie reached for the Bible but stopped when she heard the sound of hooves approaching the stable.

“Sounds like Alec bought a whole team,” Jamie said.

Then came the voices. Maggie couldn’t understand them but she knew they were English. She saw Jamie’s fists clench and unclench.

“Stay here,” he said, hurrying over to the door and pulling out a knife, his grip tight but shaky.

From behind Jamie, she watched the horses crest the hill and begin down to the stables. Their riders wore red. She took a few steadying breaths, then bounded over to Jamie and stood in front of him.

“Maggie, what are—”

“You need to hide. Now.”

“I’m not letting you go out there alone.”

“I’m not the one with a price on my head.”

The horses continued their descent down the hill, the soldiers on their backs coming into redder, bloodier focus. Any closer and they’d spot Jamie for sure.

“Jamie. Now.”

 Jamie stood immobile, his eyes growing wider, his face taut as if he were forgetting to breathe. Finally, he placed a protective hand on Maggie’s arm, trying to pull her back. She pushed it away.

“Now,” she repeated and stepped out to greet the soldiers.

“Greetings, Mistress,” a young man in the front of the pack called.

Maggie nodded, straining to understand what the man said next, searching for familiar words but finding nothing to hold onto. She found herself distracted by a man seated on a horse just a bit in front of the first one. He sat like an officer, rigid and bored. His eyes lazily travelled from left to right, surveying his surroundings with disinterest. And yet, Maggie also sensed a terrifying focus in the man. When his eyes eventually landed on her, she was pulled toward him as if caught in a rope that retracted inch by inch with each of the man’s slow blinks. She looked up at his sharp nose, the dirt that caked his face and gathered in the wrinkles around his mouth. He was filthy but somehow refined at the same time. His long hair was gathered together with a blue ribbon, perfectly matching the blue of his tricorne hat and the detailing of his jacket. Not a strand was out of place.

“Good afternoon, Mistress.”

“Good afternoon,” Maggie said. Then, after a pause, “sir.”

The man continued but Maggie couldn’t take any meaning from what he was saying until the very end, “James Fraser.”

At the sound of Jamie’s name, she tasted blood and realized that she had bitten the inside of her cheek. Trying to hide her recognition of the name, she said, “Sorry, sir. I have,” she struggled to find the right word, “small English.”

Another man in the group said something to his friend who laughed before the man at the front barked out an order, silencing both of them.

He continued, speaking more slowly. “We are looking for Jamie Fraser.”

This time, Maggie understood the words she had already suspected. “I’m sorry. I don’t recognize the name,” she thought to herself but couldn’t translate it to English.

Frustrated by her silence, the man snapped at Maggie, the sudden volume and pitch making her jump.

“Sir?”

The man rolled his eyes and said very slowly, “Do. You. Know. Of. Such. A. Man?”

“No,” Maggie said. Then, “The laird is at home. I take you?” She pointed at the castle.

The man’s lips twitched into a momentary smirk. “He lives in the castle, yes?”

Maggie nodded.

“I trust we’ll be able to find it.”

The man touched his hat in salute and Maggie expected him to lead the group up to the castle and away from her and Jamie. Instead, she watched in horror as he gracefully dismounted and walked toward her, his movements somehow more menacing for their slowness. He stopped just inches away from her, then leaned in even further to whisper in her ear. As he bent his head toward her, she could smell the familiar scent of men and horses and something else—like a pine tree but gentler and more floral. He began speaking but Maggie couldn’t understand most of it. She heard the phrase “learn English” and then, “a woman alone is.” She had not yet learned the words that came after it but she took the message nonetheless as the man reached a hand to her face, first caressing it then tightening his grip so that he was holding her chin firmly in place. He shook her face slightly then drew his hand back and walked away. Mounting his horse, he said, “Good day, Mistress.” Maggie nodded, expecting him to ride away. When he didn’t, she opened her mouth and tried to whisper, “Good day, sir.” Nothing came out. She breathed deeply then tried again.

“Good day, sir.”

The volume and forcefulness seemed to startle the soldiers. The man raised his eyebrows and smiled. He called out something to his men that Maggie couldn’t understand and then led them away, off to the castle.

Maggie watched them go until they reached the castle walls. Then she bent down, clutching her knees for support. She counted to one hundred to make sure they wouldn’t return, straightened up, and turned back to the stables to find Jamie.

“Jamie. They’ve gone to the castle.” There was no response. “It’s all right now.”

Jamie said nothing. She didn’t blame him. Her voice was quavering enough, she would not have trusted herself either. She walked along a row of empty horse stalls expecting him to have hidden there but couldn’t see him. She hoisted herself up along the fence in order to get a better look. He wasn’t there. She wandered around, looking for him, even sifting through the piles of hay, to no avail. She looked inside the occupied horse stalls, sticking her head far over the fences to peer inside, putting herself directly in thumping range of the horses’ enormous heads. Finally, she walked back to the entrance, wondering if Jamie had somehow fled the stable all together. 

Just as she was about to leave, a voice called out to her, “Maggie. Over here.”

She spun around to find Jamie crouched in a corner, right next to the giant stable door, still clutching his knife, holding it at shoulder height. If the soldiers had decided to search the place, he would have been found immediately. He would have seen them coming and likely could have stabbed a few of them before they apprehended him. Still, there was no possible situation in which he could have escaped them all.

Jamie lowered the knife as Maggie approached him but continued to hold it tight by his side. She sat down next to him in the cramped space between the door and the corner, feeling the shaking of his body against that of her own as their shoulders touched.

“Are you all right?” he asked.

She nodded, not able to give voice to the lie. “Are you?” Jamie nodded as well.

“We probably should wait here for a while in case they come back,” she continued. “Perhaps we could move further back, though, so you’ll be hidden if they decide to search here.”

“I’m just going to sit here for a bit,” Jamie said.

Maggie nodded again. Her shaking was subsiding, leaving the core of her body and settling in her hands which still trembled as she held them out in front of face, but Jamie’s shaking remained steady, rattling her slightly as they leaned against each other. She suspected he couldn’t stand even if he wanted to. Without saying anything, she reached her arm out and wrapped it as far around Jamie’s broad shoulders as she could manage. He looked at her with surprised, embarrassed eyes but gradually relaxed into her. Maggie leaned her head against the wall and slowed her breathing, trying to provide a model for Jamie. For several minutes, they sat in silence, their breathing gradually falling in line with one another.

Finally, Jamie said, “Your English was very good.”

“What?”

“During your interaction with the men, I thought your English was especially good. I was impressed.”

Maggie laughed slightly. Then, looking at the earnestness on Jamie’s face, she laughed harder, until she was almost hysterical, tears forming in her eyes. It wasn’t especially funny but the ridiculousness of pointing out her English skills after all that had just happened struck her. She felt the fear that had gripped them both loosening with each laugh. Jamie smiled and laughed as well.

“Not good enough,” Maggie said after composing herself. “There was so much I didn’t understand. Could you hear everything they were saying?”

“Most of it.”   

“And did you recognize any of the voices?”

Jamie’s face hardened. “Captain Black Jack Randall.”

Maggie stifled a gasp. She wasn’t sure whether Jamie was aware that she knew who Randall was.

“The man who flogged me,” Jamie said. “And… and hurt my sister as well.”

Jamie stared ahead determinedly but his mind seemed far away.

“I’m sorry, Jamie.”

“It’s fine.”

“It’s not,” Maggie said. “But it’s over now.”

Jamie made a noise of agreement.

“Can you tell me more about what they said?” she asked. “For instance, what were those two men laughing about when I told them I couldn’t speak English?”

“They said your effort was commendable.” Maggie was thrilled to see Jamie smile.

“No they did not,” she said.

“Ah, you’re right. They didn’t. They said, ‘That’s apparent.’”

“That’s not very fair. I thought that was one of my better sentences, telling them I couldn’t speak English.”

“It was good, yes. Just a bit awkward. You said you had ‘small English.’ You know, like, small.” Jamie brought his hands close together to indicate something small.

“Oh. I suppose you couldn’t hear what Randall whispered to me.”

“I could actually,” Jamie said. “I, well, I was actually hiding in a back stall most of the time but when I heard him get off his horse, I snuck over here so I could better hear what he was doing. I could tell he was walking up to you.”

“Jamie, you must have walked right by the door.”

“I was careful.”

“Not very. Why’d you do that?”

Jamie picked up the knife he had finally let go and began to pass it back and forth from hand to hand, fiddling nervously. “I wanted to be close. In case he did something to you. Or tried to.”

“What would you have done if he did hurt me?”

“I don’t know. I suppose I would have jumped out and tried to stab him.”

“But they would have killed you.”

“I couldn’t let it happen again,” Jamie said through gritted teeth, “Couldn’t let him hurt someone right in front of me.”

“Oh. Jamie, I don’t know what to say. I really appreciate that.”

Jamie shook his head as if to say, “It was nothing.” But it was something. Knowing how much he cared was both comforting and terrifying for Maggie.

“Thank you,” Maggie said. “Do you think you could tell me, uh, what he said?”

“There’s no need. It was just meant to frighten you.”

“And it did frighten me. Not knowing what he said made it even worse. You can tell me. I can handle it.”

“Well, he said he had ‘a word of advice for you.’ He said you were in a British country now and you’d be better off learning English. He said you wouldn’t want to provoke any misunderstandings with your ill-chosen words, that you wouldn’t want to give a man leave to, well, that you wouldn’t want to give him the wrong impression. He said a woman alone was vulnerable enough already.” Jamie paused. “You didn’t say anything, though, that would ever make a man think, well, think that you were offering yourself or anything of the sort.”

“I know that,” Maggie said more brusquely than she meant to. “I’m sorry. I mean, thank you. I knew that but it was nice of you to say. You’re a true,” she paused, “friend.”

Then she fell quiet, settling into the inadequacy of that word

“I told myself if I ever met that man again, I’d kill him,” Jamie said.

Maggie, startled by the venom in Jamie’s voice, drew away from him involuntarily.

“Have you ever killed someone before?” she asked.

Jamie’s face contorted with hurt. “Of course not,” he said. “It wouldn’t be for what he did to me. It would be for my sister and my father.”

Jamie blinked quickly and Maggie saw the start of a tear catch on his eyelash.

“I’m sorry, Jamie.”

“Instead, I hid from him. Like a coward.”

“No.”

Maggie moved so that she was facing Jamie, directly in his line of vision. She searched for the words to tell him just how wrong he was. To tell him that any man who would walk in front of a wide open stable door, in full view of at least twenty armed redcoats all looking for him, just because another man had gotten off his horse was not a coward. To tell him that anyone who was willing to risk his life for someone he had met mere months earlier was not a coward. To tell him that, after finding shelter at Leoch and escaping a reality in which she had been scared every minute of every day, she still felt safer in his presence than anywhere else in the castle.

“Jamie, you put yourself in danger to make sure Randall didn’t harm me.”

Jamie shook his head. “But first I hid.”

“You had to,” Maggie said. “If you hadn’t they would have taken you away, or even killed you right here.” She felt a lump form in her throat. “I’m so grateful that didn’t happen. Jamie, I—”

Unable to continue, she pulled Jamie into a hug.

“You’re all right,” she said, hoping he wouldn’t notice the silent tears falling on his shoulder. “You’re all right now.”

“I know,” Jamie said, slowly reaching his arms around her. “Thank you, Maggie. I know.”


	12. Outlaw

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jamie considers his next move

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> More music! The song that accompanies Jamie and Murtagh’s conversation/argument is “Welcome Home, Son” by Radical Face; it’s a much less happy song than it sounds. The song for when Jamie is talking to Maggie about his dream is “Forest Fires” by Axel Flovent.

After Randall’s visit to the castle, Jamie began sleeping in the stables, a practice that Maggie called callous and barbaric and that Jamie informed her would allow Colum some “plausible deniability.” Should Jamie ever be caught, Colum could claim he had no idea his wanted nephew was sleeping on his castle grounds. When Maggie asked what kind of uncle would make his own nephew sleep outside in February when there was still snow on the ground, Jamie reminded her that if he were found, the whole castle and everyone in it could be implicated, “including Mrs. Fitz.”

“As laird, Colum has to think of all of them.”

Maggie had muttered an acquiescence to this point and returned to her reading.

Jamie was adept at making himself scarce. Maggie almost never saw him in the castle anymore and, despite the fact that they had become his new sleeping place, often could not find him in the stables either. It was as if he were hiding from everyone, not just Randall.

One night, just before dinner, she saw him in the passageway outside the great hall and rushed to bring him in, to have him sit by her, to watch over him. She was cut off by Murtagh, who either didn’t notice her or pretended not to. She watched as he grabbed Jamie by the elbow and led him down the corridor, knowing she shouldn’t follow but doing so anyway. They rounded a corner and stopped. Maggie stood a few feet away, her ear pressed to the wall, her back to them so that she could pretend to be heading down to the hall if they found her.

“We need to talk about finding you a more suitable place,” Murtagh said.

“More suitable?”

“You can’t be planning to stay here forever.”

“Well no. Someday I hope to go back to Lallybroch but until then—”

“You don’t have until then, lad. Do you really feel safe under Dougal and Colum’s watch? How long do you expect them to protect you?”

“They’re my mother’s brothers. I don’t expect them to turn me in.”

“But what do you expect them to do when the English come back with more men and more guns and demand to search the castle? What then?”

“That won’t happen.”

“It might. Do you think Colum will stick his neck out for you then? And even if he does, what about Dougal? Do you think that man has any affection for you?”

“I do.”

Murtagh scoffed. “That man’s not capable of feeling anything for anyone but himself. Mark my words, he’ll sell you out the moment you become inconvenient to him. He’s already seeing how much Colum likes you and feeling threatened.”

“That may be, but Dougal hates the English more than anything, so whether he cares a lick for me or not, he won’t be cooperating with them any time soon.”

“I wouldn’t be so sure,” Murtagh said. “Why do you even want to stay so badly?”

“I’ve built a life here.”

“Built a life here?” Murtagh’s voice was growing dangerously loud, far above the whisper he usually employed in his private conversations with Jamie. “You’ve only been here four months. You mean you’ve met a girl here.”

Maggie breathed in suddenly, then belatedly covered her mouth, worried she had revealed herself. The men, however, were too caught up in their discussion to notice.

“No, that’s not what I meant,” Jamie said in a carefully measured voice.

“I knew that lass would be trouble.”

“Without ‘that lass’ I might not even be here.”

“Don’t be dramatic.”

“Dramatic?” Jamie repeated, his volume eclipsing his godfather’s. “I’m sorry, Murtagh. You’re right. I would never want to be too dramatic about all the awfully mundane things that have happened to me over these past few months.”

Maggie heard heavy footsteps walking down the passageway, away from her and the great hall, then an almost hissing sound like that of a wild cat, and the sound of knuckles thumping against stone.

“Jamie,” Murtagh called out before walking back around the corner.

In her anxiety about the conversation, Maggie had turned to face the voices and now found herself in front of Murtagh without any pretense of having not been eavesdropping. She expected him to tell her off or at least scowl at her from behind his straggly beard. Instead, he looked at her with contrition, seemingly forgetting his previous appraisal of this troublesome lass and his aversion to being overheard by her.

“I’m merely,” he began. “I just want to help the lad.”

“I know,” Maggie said, nodding at Murtagh and walking past him, toward her room, her appetite vanished.

She chose not to tell Jamie about her spying, deciding to let him reveal whatever he wanted to her. Their English lessons continued—whenever Maggie could find him—but Jamie seemed far off, his mind lost in other thoughts. Maggie didn’t blame him and had stopped trying to call his attention back to the task at hand, instead making her own independent efforts to translate the text in front of her. She wasn’t sure which was kinder—giving him the space to contemplate the myriad concerns that could be occupying his mind or distracting him from them, unpleasant as they were likely to be.

“Jamie, are you all right?” she asked one day.

Jamie nodded.

“It’s just, you seem a bit distracted.”

Jamie rubbed at his eyes and leaned over to look at the Bible passage Maggie was trying to make sense of. “I’m sorry. I’ll start paying more attention.”

“Oh no. I didn’t mean it as a criticism, more a concern.”

“Thank you but I’m fine.”

Jamie’s eyes, usually so bright and transfixing, looked as if someone had pushed them farther back into his skull. They were consumed by deep, dark circles that turned into triangles under each eye, cutting caverns into his face. His usually sturdy body seemed to be turning in on itself, his shoulders always hunched. He looked anything but fine.

“You seem tired,” Maggie continued. “Is it sleeping out here in the cold? I could bring you the blankets from my room.”

“Ah no. That’s kind but I couldn’t take your blankets.”

“It would be no trouble.”

“Maggie, I said I was fine,” Jamie snarled. Then, staring into his lap, his head held low, “I’m sorry.”

“It’s all right,” Maggie said. “I know you’re thinking about,” she paused, “so many things.”

The corners of Jamie’s mouth flicked upward but the smile didn’t travel to his eyes. They sat in silence. Finally, Jamie said, “It’s not the cold that’s been keeping me awake. It’s these, these dreams I’ve been having.”

“Do you want to tell me about them?”

Jamie shook his head, then said, “Perhaps I do. I’m not sure.”

“Anytime you want to talk, I’ll listen.”

“Thank you.”

She waited to see if he would say anything more and when he didn’t, held the Bible out to him, trying to distract him with a question about some unknown word. Before she could ask, though, Jamie began to speak.

“It begins pretty much as it happened in real life. Randall comes to our place and it’s just me and Jenny there. He and his men find her and they begin… harassing her. I hear her screaming and run to try to help and I’m no help at all. Two men grab me and I fight them off at first but they get me again and string me up in the archway outside the house. Randall asks my sister to sacrifice herself for me, to sacrifice—you understand what I mean?”

“I do.”

“So, he tells her she has to do that or he’ll kill me and she goes with him into the house. Next thing I know I’m at Fort William and I’m standing in the crowd, facing the platform where I was whipped, only instead of me up there it’s Jenny. And Randall humiliates her all over again, in front of everyone. He rips her clothes off and I try to run up there and stop him but I can’t move. No one’s restraining me but I can’t move. Can’t even yell. And in my head, I’m screaming and screaming and nothing comes out. And then Jenny’s gone and my father’s in front and Randall takes out a knife and slits his throat, right there. And blood spurts everywhere and my father’s still alive, choking on it.” Jamie’s voice was constricted, sounding as if he were choking as well. He swallowed loudly and continued. “Then suddenly.” Jamie paused and looked at Maggie for the first time since beginning his story. Looking away quickly, he said, “Then suddenly you’re there and they’re chaining _you_ to the post, to the post where I was whipped and Randall takes out his whip and shows it to me, to the whole crowd, but also just to me. And he whips you until, until there’s nothing left. All your skin. Is gone. They throw your body into a trash heap and finally I can move and I do move and I run over to get you out and I realize that it’s not trash at all but thousands upon thousands of bodies and my father’s body is there too and Jenny’s. And then I see Murtagh and my mother and my brother Willie, as he was as a little boy, when he died, and Colum and Dougal, and Ian and everyone I’ve ever cared for. And that’s when I realize how dangerous I am. That I’m a danger to anyone I come into contact with.”

Maggie blinked away tears. Without realizing it, she had drawn her knees into her chest and hugged them to her body tighter and tighter as the story progressed. She stretched her legs out and reached for Jamie’s hand.

“I’m so sorry, Jamie.”

“ _I’m_ sorry.”

“For what?”

“For putting you in danger.”

“Jamie, it was just a dream. You haven’t put me in danger.”

“I did when Randall and his men came.”

“No. That was my choice. You didn’t do anything wrong. Do you really think you’re a danger to me, or anyone else?”

“I know I am,” Jamie said. “Murtagh doesn’t think I’m safe here. I’m not sure. What I know is that no one else here is safe as long as I’m around.”

“That’s not true.”

“It is,” Jamie said, anger creeping back into his voice but leaving it as quickly as it came. “That’s why I’ve decided to go to France.”

“But what will you do there?”

“I’ll be fighting in the army. Ian’s already over there.”

“You’re going to be a mercenary?”

Jamie pulled his hand away. “What else would you have me do, Maggie?”

“Couldn’t you be a tutor?”

“People in France don’t hire Scottish tutors.”

“Jamie, I really don’t think you have to leave.”

“You’re not going to talk me out of this.”

Maggie looked out at the hills that stretched up to the castle, focused on the tufts of green poking up through the thinning snow, searching for some argument, some piece of evidence to convince Jamie to stay. She gazed at the castle, cold stone rising up from the cold earth. It struck her now as less inviting than it had ever seemed before. This place of safety suddenly losing warmth and life.

“Does Murtagh know about this?” she asked.

“No. We had a bit of a disagreement recently but I’ll make it up with him, tell him my plans.”

“Do you think he’ll support it?”

“He’ll certainly be pleased I’m leaving Castle Leoch.”

“Leaving for the safety of war.”

“Don’t say that, Maggie. I’ll be fine.”

 _You don’t know that,_ Maggie thought.

 

At dinner that night, Maggie sat alone with a look so brooding even Broden had chosen not to join her. She traced circles in the thick, brown stew on her table, leaving behind faint crescent moons as the viscous liquid settled back into the empty spaces. Her focus on the stew was so intent, she failed to notice the man clearing his throat in front of her until he began to sit down, his dark, spindly beard entering her field of vision. She looked up to see Murtagh, sheepishly lowering himself onto the bench across from her.

“May I sit?”

Maggie nodded. He was seated already.

Competing interests careened through Maggie’s thoughts. “I hope you’re happy,” she wanted to say, or part of her did. The other part wanted to say something comforting to the wary, uncertain man before her, a version of Murtagh that she had not seen until that day in the corridor, after his argument with Jamie. She couldn’t think of anything, though, and part of her didn’t want to. Instead, she avoided looking at Murtagh, staring just over the top of his head.

“I’ll be going with him,” Murtagh said. “I’ll take him as far as Paris.”

“That's good.”

“Yes.”

Murtagh stroked his beard, looking to the side of Maggie so that they were both looking beyond each other. Eventually, Maggie lowered her head to make eye contact, her eyes narrowed.

“Do you approve of this? Of him going to France?”

“I do.”

Maggie’s face grew hot, her temper rising. “You really think he’ll be safer there than here?” Murtagh opened his mouth to speak but Maggie cut him off. “In an army? Going around with other men killing people.”

“The more distance he puts between himself and Randall, the safer he’ll be.”

“But there’s plenty of distance here. That’s been proven, hasn’t it? Randall came and he didn’t get to Jamie.” Maggie paused, then added, “I didn’t let him.”

“Aye, but what if you hadn’t been there? What if you’re not there next time?”

“I will be there.”

Murtagh raised his eyebrows. “You plan to be around the lad all the time then? I suppose you’d like that.”

“What do you mean by that?”

“I mean you’ve formed an attachment that isn’t entirely appropriate.”

“The devil with appropriate!” Maggie said loudly enough that diners at the adjacent tables turned to look at her. She continued, more quietly, “Do you want Jamie to be completely without friends here? Is that what you’d prefer?”

“I’d prefer if he didn’t have other people influencing him.”

“Right. That’s your job. And what kind of horrors do you think I’m encouraging him toward? I care about keeping Jamie safe too, you know. You and I want the same thing.”

“Aye. And I’ve wanted it far longer,” Murtagh said, leaning forward somewhat threateningly. “You’ve only just met the lad.”

Maggie bent forward as well, her hands clutching the bench beneath her, holding on to keep from doing anything rash. “Did you come to make amends?” she said. “If so, I think you’ve failed at that and you’d just as well leave.”

“Make amends?” Murtagh asked. “For what? I came here as a courtesy. To reassure you.”

“Thank you. That’s very kind of you,” Maggie said before turning her head away from Murtagh, signaling for him to leave. After a small grunt and head shake, he did, leaving Maggie alone with her thoughts.

She wanted to pick up her wooden bowl and throw it against the wall but of course did not. She still had some sense of propriety, despite what Murtagh might think of her. How dare he? How dare he criticize her when he was the one who had talked Jamie into leaving the safety of Castle Leoch for a war? Had talked him into leaving her.

She wrestled with her anger for much of the night, lying in bed picturing Murtagh’s idiotic face, permanently red and raw as if he had just been exposed to a cold and biting wind, his beard a bit too bushy for its own good with bristles that looked like they’d prick you if you got too close. How dare he?

Of course, the central issue was not that Jamie was leaving _her._ She did know this. The central issue was, obviously, that he was embarking on a dangerous trip, putting himself in harm’s way for a country that was not even his own. She had no claims on Jamie and she knew that, wanted Murtagh to know that she knew. Murtagh had no claims on Jamie either but he clearly did not know this. Who was Murtagh anyway? Jamie’s godfather for sure, but not his father. Besides, Jamie was a grown man, if a young one. He didn’t need people telling him what to do.

Miraculously, Maggie’s tiredness was able to cut through her fury and soon she was wrapped in a tight sleep, her hands gripping the blankets on either side of her. Fuzzy details of Jamie’s dream played in her head. Hazy outlines arrived at a hazy stone house, wreaking hazy havoc. It was unsettling but only enough to cause Maggie’s shoulders to stiffen even further, not enough for her brain to wake her up and rescue her. The dream proceeded, slowly moving down an ill-defined road, until the images suddenly came into terrible, clear focus. Maggie found herself standing atop a raised platform. She was barefoot and she could feel the rough wood underneath her, could feel splinters entering the soles of her feet. She was chained to a post in the middle of the stage and Randall was there speaking, she now realized, to her. She couldn’t understand a word he said and suspected it was not English but some ancient, evil tongue unique to him. He approached her as he had that day at the stables, caressed her face, crept a finger down from her lips, over her breasts, and finally down to her hips. He reached a hand under her skirt, in between her legs and she kicked him, receiving a hard, backhanded slap in response. From the corner of the dream, a man yelled in a language she could understand, probably Gaelic. He was yelling her name over and over again but Maggie couldn’t locate him, couldn’t find him out until she heard a loud pop and saw Jamie fall to the ground, a bullet lodged in his heart.

“Jamie!” she yelled and felt the first crack of the whip coming down upon her back.

The second lash ripped a line across her blouse and after the sixth, the shirt was completely gone, leaving her exposed in front of Randall and his men. With each lash, more layers of clothing seemed to fall of her body even though this was impossible—she was naked already. She turned her head and caught a lash across the face. That’s when she realized that it was her skin that was falling off, leaving behind a glistening, red open wound. Until that began to fall away as well, leaving nothing but gray, fragile bone. She screamed as loudly as she could but was drowned out by the laughter of Randall and the soldiers. She did not wake up. There was no rescue.

She felt herself disintegrating, her bones crumbling under the whip.

She heard knocking in the distance.

“Maggie! Maggie!”

“Jamie!” she answered, despite witnessing him die. “Jamie!”

The voice broke through the door and flew to her, clearing the soldiers in its path. Randall turned to face it and was blown away by a gust of wind. The voice stopped to rest by Maggie’s ear and shake her gently.

“Miss Ó Broin, Maggie, wake up now. Wake up.”

Maggie opened her eyes to see Murtagh standing over her.

“Are you all right?” he asked.

Maggie reached a hand to her back. Her skin was clammy and hot but definitely there. She nodded.

“I’m,” she said, “I’m sorry to wake you.”

Murtagh made a noise and waved his hand, brushing this aside.

“Bad dream?”

Maggie nodded.

“Were you dreaming of Jamie, lass?”

“In a way. I was mostly dreaming about myself. I’m selfish, I guess.”

“No, I wouldn’t say that.”

Maggie sat up further to get a better look at Murtagh. In the windowless room, she couldn’t see much but Murtagh had brought a candle with him and she could see its light reflected in his eyes. Maggie had found his eyes beady before but the kind expression in them made them look somehow deeper.

“Jamie told me about a dream he’s been having,” she said. “I suppose it was in my thoughts.”

Murtagh frowned. “Aye. He told me about that dream.”

“I’m glad the two of you are speaking again. He needs you.”

“And you too,” Murtagh said. “He’ll be back, to see you again, if you’re worried about that.”

“I’m—” Maggie hesitated. “I’m not worried that he won’t come back to see me, just that he won’t come back to… to see anyone.”

“He’s a strong lad. He’ll make it back.”

Murtagh said this with total conviction but Maggie wondered if it was real or just an act for her benefit. She did not feel the same certainty, though she wished she did.

“I’ve been thinking,” she said. “Jamie doesn’t do anything he doesn’t want to do, does he?”

“Aye. He’s a stubborn one.”

“So, perhaps it isn’t your fault that he’s decided to go to France, or mine that he, well that he’s done anything you disagree with.”

“Perhaps not.”

Murtagh turned so his mouth was in shadow but Maggie saw a smile in his eyes.

“If you’re fine now, I’ll go,” Murtagh said.

“I am. Thank you, Murtagh.”                                                                                                 

“Good night, Maggie.”

 

After telling Maggie of his intentions to travel to France, Jamie relaxed somewhat, seemingly relieved by having set a course of action. He began to fully dedicate himself to their English lessons once more and the vigor and color returned to his face. Maggie, on the other hand, was highly distracted, drifting off for long periods of time only to return to the present and realize she had no idea what Jamie has just said.

“Maggie, are you listening?” he asked.

“What? Yes. Of course.”

“What did I just say, then?”

“You said, ‘Maggie, you’re learning all of this so quickly. Your intellect truly is astounding. And it was very wise of you to suggest that we stick with reading the Bible and not that horrid book about a pompous Englishman who renames people who have perfectly good names to start out with.”

“Oh,” Jamie said. “I apologize. I thought you weren’t listening but that’s exactly what I was saying.”

“Really?”

“No, Maggie, of course not.”

“Why of course not? Everything I just said was true.”

Jamie rolled his eyes. “I was actually saying that you have to be careful with verbs in English because they have a lot of irregularities.”

“Oh, I see,” Maggie said with glazed over eyes, blinking quickly to try to keep herself from falling asleep.

“I shouldn’t have told you about my dreams,” Jamie said, growing serious. “I know it upset you.”

“No.” Maggie began to protest but thought better of it. “Yes, it did but I’m a grown woman and I can handle being upset.”

“The part about what happened to you was so horrible. I should have left that out.”

“No. I’m glad you told me. If it helped you to feel at all at peace, I’m glad you could tell me.”

Jamie squeezed Maggie’s hand then let go.

“So,” Maggie said, trying to sound more positive than she felt, “Tell me about France. You’ve been there before, yes?”

“Aye. I stayed with my cousin Jared in Paris.”

“I can’t believe you have family in France. That’s so civilized.”

“I also studied at the Université,” Jamie said. “How’s that for civilized?”

“The what?”

“The college. A more advanced school.”

“Oh, I’m _so_ impressed,” Maggie said.

“I think you are,” Jamie said, “Even if you don’t want to admit it. But you must have family in France as well.”

“Must I?”

“Aye. Didn’t some O’Donnells leave Ireland for France back in the 1600s?”

“Oh, they did, yes, but they settled in Italy.”

“Are you sure?”

“Quite. I know my own family history, even if I never did go to oonyvarsitay. It’s different, though. You have family that actually acknowledges you. The O’Donnells may be disgraced but they still wouldn’t stoop so low as to count Breandan Ó Broin’s daughter as one of them.”

Jamie gave her a sympathetic look.

“It’s all right,” Maggie said perhaps too cheerily. “I’m not torn up over it. Anyway, tell me more about Paris. What was it like?”

“It was, indeed, as you said, quite civilized. The men all wear satin coats and the women have these big cages in their skirts to make them look huge and even rectangular,” Jamie said. “It’s very unnatural.”

“Women here never employ such artifice,” Maggie said, shimmying her shoulders to try to resituate her corset in a more comfortable location.

“Is that a joke?” Jamie asked.

“Of course it is.”

“Aye, well, I can’t always tell with you.”

“I like to be mysterious.”

Jamie shook his head and smiled at her—the slightly crooked smile that showed her just a bit of his teeth. He often looked at her like this, as if she were constantly surprising him. He seemed to be making a study of her, while also resolving himself to never truly figuring her out—all this despite the fact that Maggie never considered herself particularly unreadable or even worth reading in the first place. If anything she was too readable, at least around Jamie, or so was her fear. She looked away from him, somewhat embarrassed by his attentions but also excited. She felt herself calming, the casual levity she had been putting on for Jamie’s benefit becoming less of an act.

“The women there were very elegant,” Jamie said, “Though not as mysterious as some of the ones here.”

“You seem quite taken with the French ladies, Jamie. Did you have the privilege of making any of their acquaintances?”

“Ah, well, there was one,” Jamie said hesitantly. “Her name was Annalise, still is I suppose. She was incredibly delicate and so petite she could move without making a sound, as if her feet didn’t even touch the ground. I half-wondered if she had the power of flight.”

“Perhaps she was a witch.”

“No,” Jamie said more reverently than Maggie would have liked, “Certainly not. I was quite in love with her—or thought I was at least—but it was not meant to be.”

“I imagine it would be hard to be in love with someone who doesn’t even tread the earth with us mere mortals.”

“I even asked her to marry me,” Jamie continued, ignoring Maggie’s sarcasm. “She had another suitor, though, and she ended up marrying him.”

“What led her to that choice? Could he fly as well?”

“I challenged him to a duel actually. And won. Or sort of. I just wounded him a bit but she ran to him instead of me and that was the end of that. I was nearly despondent afterwards.”

“You _dueled_ over a woman?”

“Yes.”

“That kind of behavior would not have impressed me one bit.”

“Seems it didn’t impress her either,” Jamie said. “But I was young. You can’t go around proposing to women you’ve just met. I know that now.”

“You can’t? That must be why I haven’t made friends with the other women at Castle Leoch yet.”

Jamie raised his eyebrows. “That one’s a joke.”

“How can you be so sure? If you can act like a fool around women, why can’t I?”

“You’d be proposing to the men, though.”

“Well, Broden’s a bit too young, Murtagh’s a bit too old, Rupert and Angus are a bit too... Rupert and Angus, and that just leaves you, which…” Maggie trailed off.

“And I’m not exactly an ideal match,” Jamie said, “With the price on my head and all that.”

“Oh no,” Maggie said quickly, “That’s not it at all. I think you’d be a very good match for, for some lucky girl. I just, we’re very good friends, aren’t we?”

“Indeed,” Jamie said seriously and even a bit sadly. Then he brightened and smirked, reaching out a hand to tousle her hair.

Maggie ducked away. “What are you doing?”

“I’m being a friend.”

“You’re being a nuisance.”

“Someone has to be,” Jamie said, “And I don’t want you to feel like it always has to be you.”

Maggie made a noise of frustration and pushed Jamie gently, who held a hand to his heart and dramatically tipped over before popping back up to make a second assault on her hair. Maggie batted her arms at him, dodging his advances until he wrapped an arm around her neck, pulling her into a headlock. She pushed him away more forcefully this time, causing Jamie to lose his balance and fall backwards for real, his arm still hooked around Maggie, taking her with him. They collapsed into a pile of hay, both laughing, with Maggie lying against Jamie’s chest and Jamie holding onto her tightly. Maggie lifted her head and stopped laughing, stunned to find her face so close to Jamie’s. He seemed similarly surprised, staring at her through narrowed eyes. Even through his squint, Maggie could see their vibrancy, the flecks of hazel hiding amongst the green, like clusters of parched grass in the midst of a green field, not detracting from the field’s beauty but rather lending it character. Jamie’s hands had now traveled to her waist and she could feel his strong palms pressing against her. Suddenly, his grip loosened, breaking the moment. She straightened up, hastily moving away from Jamie, just as his arms fell to his sides and he also sat up, backing away from her as well.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to be—” Maggie said as Jamie said, “I’m so sorry, Maggie. That was inappropriate.”

They turned their heads from each other to stare at opposite corners of the stable. Finally, Maggie chuckled slightly and let out a burst of air.

“All right, Jamie,” she said. “I’m dying to know, just how young were you when you proposed to this Annalise?”

Jamie looked surprised to hear Maggie return to their previous conversation without any mention of what had just happened. But she was determined not to talk about it. If they did, she’d have to apologize, as would he. They’d have to insist it had been a mistake and she did not want to do this, did not see it that way, despite the fact that she certainly should.

“I was seventeen,” Jamie said. “Almost eighteen.”

“So this was just a year ago?”

“More like a year and a half.” Jamie, who rarely blushed, hung his head down, allowing his hair to fall into his face and cover it partially, but Maggie could still see a pink tinge to his cheeks.

“Oh, a year and a half,” she said. “That’s entirely different, then. A man could gain almost an eternity of knowledge about women in that time. I can see you’re much wiser now.”

Jamie lifted his head, his crooked smile reappearing.

“I feel like you’re always making fun of me,” he said.

“Ah, that’s because I am. You should just assume it as a rule.”

“I don’t think I’ve ever had a friend who was quite so cruel before.”

“I’m toughening you up. Think of it as practice for the army.”

As soon as Maggie said this, she regretted it. She had been trying to ignore the heart of the matter—the fact that Jamie was not going to France to study or be entranced by its Annalises, that he was going to fight and probably kill and maybe even be, but she couldn’t think like that.

“I’m sorry. That was a foolish thing to say.”

“Not at all,” Jamie said. “I think you’re right. I’m indebted to you. Many times over.”

He winked at her.

“Will you be in Paris again this time?” she asked.

“I’ll start out there. I don’t know where we’ll go next. We may even leave for Prussia or Austria.”

“Really?” These countries sounded far more dangerous than the “civilized” France Jamie had described.

“Perhaps. I won’t know until I arrive.”

“Will I be able to write to you?”

“Mostly likely no,” Jamie said. “I’ll be on the move enough, I don’t think the letters would reach me. I can write to you, though. You have no plans to leave Leoch, right?”

“Oh, I don’t know,” Maggie said, trying to return to the flippant banter of a few moments ago.

Jamie was taken aback. “Where will you go?”

“Oh, I’m sorry. That was a joke. A bad one.”

“Ah, good.” Jamie relaxed, having sat up straighter and leaned forward at Maggie’s last comment.

“When do you leave?” Maggie asked.

“In a week.”

“So soon.”

“I’m actually leaving for Inverness tonight,” Jamie said. “I have some business to attend to before I leave.”

Maggie’s breath caught in her throat.

“Is it wise to go somewhere so populated when the English are looking for you?”

“That’s why we’re traveling at night—Murtagh and I. Once we arrive, I figure I’ll blend in well enough amongst the crowd.”

Maggie couldn’t imagine Jamie blending in anywhere.

“Are you coming back here before you sail to France?”

“Of course. I have business to attend to here as well.”

“What kind of business?”

“Where do I even begin?” Jamie smiled. “Thanking Colum and Dougal for their generosity, saying goodbye to Rupert and Angus, Mrs. Fitz, Alec, the horses.”

“Are you forgetting anyone?”

“Oh, you? That’s very important business indeed,” he said. Then, “I should probably go prepare to leave.” He stood up and, for a moment, looked at Maggie awkwardly as if waiting for her to say something. Then he kissed his hand and laid it on the top of her head, before shrugging his shoulders sheepishly and walking away.


	13. New Friends

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Maggie visits town, accompanied, much to her dismay, by Rupert And Angus

The morning after Jamie left for Inverness, Maggie was summoned to Colum’s study. His messenger had ushered her into the room, closing the door behind him and leaving her alone to wait for the MacKenzie. Now that she could potentially read them—or at least a few words of them—Maggie was even more impressed by the books lining the walls. Most of them were bound in brown leather or cloth, their spines beginning to wear, but a few were dressed more brightly, in yellows and bright blues. Maggie noted multiple books by Voltaire and Isaac Newton, names that she would not have recognized a month ago.

“You can borrow one anytime you’d like,” Colum said from the doorway, reminding Maggie why she was there. “I hear you’re learning to read.”

“I already know how to read,” Maggie said too quickly, forgetting she was speaking to the laird. “Pardon me, sir. I am indeed learning to read English. I could already read Gaelic.”

“Could you now?”

Colum nodded at her, conferring his approval, before beginning the long walk for the door to his desk. It wasn’t a great distance but Colum moved so laboriously—today especially—that it felt endless. Watching him move was almost painful and Maggie found herself wanting to rush over and help him, to warp an arm around the small man’s shoulders and practically carry him over. Of course, she did not do this. It would have hurt the dignity of any man and Colum was not just any man. He was the MacKenzie, head of one of the most powerful clans in all of Scotland.

“Sit,” Colum grunted at her as he settled into his own chair, grimacing slightly.

“I do know that my nephew has already taken a few books to aid in your lessons,” Colum continued. “Perhaps he doesn’t think I’m pious enough to notice a few missing Bibles but he’d be surprised.”

“Thank you for letting us use them, sir.”

“Jamie’s why I called you here, in fact,” Colum said. “To thank you for your quick thinking with Randall and his men. Seems the lad owes you his life twice over now.”

“Thank you, sir. I’m sure he would have been fine without me.”

“Well, I’m less sure,” Colum said, “And profoundly grateful. Is there anything that I could do for you?”

“You’ve already done so much just by letting me stay here,” Maggie said.

Colum nodded and Maggie noticed an almost imperceptible flinch, marked by a quick twitch of the left side of his face.

“Sir?” she began, “I don’t mean to be impertinent, but are you in pain?”

“Impertinent? I’d call that perceptive. Perhaps even minimally perceptive if you have to ask. Yes. Of course I am.”

Colum’s voice was rough but his face was kind, giving Maggie the courage to continue.

“I was wondering, sir, if you’d tried willow bark. My mother used to use it—specifically white willow.”

“My rhenish works well enough,” Colum said, raising a glass of his ever-present wine.

“Yes, sir. I have no doubt that would work but I think my suggestion would work while making you slightly less—” Maggie searched for the right word. She had never seen Colum truly drunk but wondered how this could be given her experience of the drink during Christmas Eve—and unfortunately Christmas morning as well. Finally she settled on, “altered.” “Not to suggest that I’ve ever seen you inebriated, sir. I just know from personal experience that I, well that I am quite altered by your rhenish.”

“In other words, you’ve gotten quite drunk on it.”

“Yes, sir.” Her head ached at the memory. “And I think willow bark could provide you with more relief and fewer other effects.”

“I suppose it couldn’t hurt to try it. You can go into the village to buy some tomorrow.”

“I don’t expect they’ll have it, sir.”

“It’s just willow bark, no?”

“White willow. My mother seemed to think that part was important. They never had it at any of our markets back home. She always scraped it from a tree several miles away.”

“I think you’ll find, Mistress Ó Broin, that many items that are not available in Ireland are here. We’re a slightly more developed country. No offense intended.”

Maggie bristled slightly but tried to hide it. “None taken,” she lied. Then, unable to contain herself, “Although I have found that sometimes more developed countries have forgotten some of the old ways they used to live before the English came.”

Colum raised his eyebrows. “That, I would call impertinent. Insolent, even.”

Maggie bowed her head. “I’m sorry, sir.”

“No, I like it. Brings some novelty to my day. So,” Colum continued, “You will look in town and if you cannot find it, I’ll allow you to go on your own excursion. Do you know how long you might take?”

“Probably a day or so to locate the right tree. I was thinking I could bring Broden with me. I think he might enjoy it.”

“And if you run into trouble, you think Broden could protect you? The lad can’t be more than seven.”

“Eight,” Maggie said. “And I’d protect us both.”

Again, Colum raised his eyebrows, smiling. “I suppose you’ve made it this far. But, I won’t risk it. If you must go on a little journey—and I doubt you will—you will be accompanied by my brother. You’ll leave after the first thaw.”

Maggie’s breath caught in her throat. She had not spent time alone with Dougal MacKenzie before and she hadn’t intended to do so in the future. She felt anger rising in her at the idea that she’d be safer with this hot-headed older man than on her own, as if what she’d had to protect herself against over the past two years hadn’t been men just like him.

“Your brother, sir? Is he not too important for such a trip?”

“Heavens no,” Colum said. “He might think himself above it but I certainly don’t. Besides, it’s always advisable to keep him occupied, keeps him out of trouble.”

Maggie choked back her protest. “Yes, sir.”

“But, tomorrow, I’ll have Rupert and Angus accompany you to the village.”

“Surely, that I could go to unaccompanied.”

“I wouldn’t be so sure of everything, Mistress Ó Broin. They’ll accompany you because I expect you might wish for some male protection once there and because they’d enjoy a stop at the pub and because I have said they will.”

“Yes, sir.”

Colum looked from her to the door and back again, a quiet dismissal. He smiled at Maggie’s somewhat wobbly but overall successfully executed curtsy. When she reached the door, he said, “I am very grateful for what you’ve done for my kin, Mistress, and perhaps myself as well.”

Maggie nodded and exited, dreading her day with Rupert and Angus.

The next afternoon, they came to collect her, finding her in the kitchen laughing with Mrs. Fitz and Miss Drummond as Broden and three other boys acted out the story of David and Goliath for them, two of the boys playing sheep.

“Come along lass,” Rupert said. “Colum says we’re to take you to the village.”

“I really could go by myself.”

“You think we’d let you do that after receiving an order from Colum?” Angus asked.

“Fine.” Maggie sighed. “Let me get my cloak.”

She met them back by the kitchen and slowly followed the two men out of the castle. Outside the castle doors, they turned left instead of right, toward the village.

“Isn’t the village this way?” Maggie asked, pointing.

“We have to get the horses first,” Rupert answered. “You don’t expect us to get there on foot.”

This was exactly what Maggie had expected. She knew the walk from the castle to the village, having made it once herself. It took just over an hour at a brisk pace but that didn’t seem too onerous to her. She had walked all the way from her own village to Derry, all around Ulster, then from Argyll to Inverness, all around the Highlands, and finally to Castle Leoch.

“Why not?” she asked. “It’s a lovely day.”

The snow was beginning to melt but still blanketed the grass in small patches. The trees were bare but looked quite regal as the sun beat down on their branches, turning their usual dull, brown bark an auburn color.

“We can enjoy it just as well on horseback,” Rupert said.

“But, couldn’t we use the exercise?” Maggie asked.

Rupert looked down at his protruding belly. “What do you mean by that, Mistress?”

“Just that all of us might benefit from a walk. Get the blood flowing.”

“My blood’s flowing well enough, I think. Besides, riding a horse isn’t exactly like flying on a magic carpet, is it? You do some work.”

Rupert and Angus continued their walk to the stables as Maggie called after them with more excuses.

“Couldn’t the horses use a rest?”

“Where would we put them once we get there?”

Neither one answered or stopped, forcing her to run to catch up.

“Won’t the cobblestones hurt their hooves?”

“Won’t they—?”

Before she could finish, Angus wheeled around and marched up to her, standing so close their noses were almost touching. “Would ye shut your mouth, woman? I can hardly hear myself think.”

Maggie took a step back and placed her hands on her hips. “I should think I was doing you a favor then.”

“You always talk so smart.” He stuck a finger in her face. “But you—”

“Angus,” Rupert called from ahead of them. “Will you two come along? Ainm an àigh!”

When they finally reached the stables, Maggie saw no way around it. “I’ve never ridden a horse,” she said.

Rupert chuckled slightly and Angus burst out laughing. “Never ridden a horse? What have you been doing all your life?”

“Farming.”

“Farming?” Angus repeated. “And who pulls the plough then, with no horse?”

“She’s a big lass,” Rupert said. “I bet she could do it.”

“No one pulls the plough. We use a loy.”

“A loy?” asked Angus. “What the hell is that?”

“You turn the earth with it. It’s for those of us who aren’t too lazy to do the work ourselves.”

“You think I’m lazy?” Angus asked.

Maggie ignored him. “So, how do you expect me to get to town? Will you ride in and I’ll be along on foot?”

“Of course not,” said Rupert. “You’ll ride with me.”

Maggie considered protesting but decided against it. She allowed Angus to take her foot and push her up as Rupert pulled her onto the horse to sit in front. She was shocked by their strength, especially small Angus, and the ease with which they got her on the horse, but appreciative as well. The only thing more mortifying than riding a horse in front of someone like a child would be failing to mount the horse with two men pushing and pulling you. She didn’t love the tightness with which Rupert wrapped his arms around her waist, at first, but she didn’t mind so much after the horses began their trot, terrified as she was that she’d fall off. In fact, at the first movement, she had reached a hand back and grabbed for Rupert.

“Ease up, Mistress. I canna hold you and the reigns and have you pulling at me all at the same time.”

“You won’t drop me?”

“Not without cause.”

Maggie tried not to give him cause, either, keeping quiet all the way into the town, swallowing the gasps and shrieks she wanted to make with each sudden jolt. Rupert and Angus were right. It certainly was a faster trip on horseback, but Maggie would have happily sacrificed a few hours for the sake of her comfort and, more importantly, dignity. When they arrived in town, she swung her leg over so quickly she almost kicked Angus in the head as he was strolling over to help her off. She declined his help and practically vaulted herself away from the animal, landing mercifully on her feet.

“What’d you think of that?” Rupert asked.

“I don’t think I need to do it again for quite some time.”

“Ah, good thing we don’t need to be getting back to the castle before the end of the day then.”

Maggie chose to ignore his sarcasm.

“Where can I find the apothecary?” she asked a bit imperiously.

Rupert chose to ignore that.

“Just around the bend. Follow me.”

Though much smaller than Inverness, the town was bigger than the village Maggie had grown up in, with houses of two and even three stories flanking the snow-lined, cobbled streets. The rooftops were covered by clay shingles, as opposed to the thatch that Maggie was accustomed to. She had stayed here for a week before making her way up to the castle and had been struck by how much _more_ there was. More houses, more people, more stores, more items to be bought and sold, more money with which to do it. Her village in Donegal had a church and a pub and an open space market space for the travelling men and women to peddle their wares but that was more often empty than not. God and ale were all one really needed in life—at least of the things that couldn’t be made for oneself.

They had had no apothecary, just her mother’s collected supplies that she gave out—or occasionally sold when the patient could afford it—to anyone in need. The apothecary here was clearly a more complex operation. Bundles of dried herbs hung from the ceiling and jars of mysterious pickled substances sat on tables throughout the store. Behind the counter stood a wizened old man with white hair growing out of his ears and nose. Above him, two stock boys ran around shelving and reshelving items in the partially-exposed attic.

“Good afternoon, Mr. Furston,” Rupert said. “We’re here for—” He turned to Maggie. “What is it again?”

“White willow.”

"Aye. White willow."

“What are you planning to do with it?” the old man asked.

“I use it to treat pain,” Maggie said, stepping forward.

Mr. Furston raised his eyebrows. “You’re a bit too young to know how to use anything. Aren’t you, my dear?”

This struck Maggie as a ridiculous thing to say. Even infants had been on this earth long enough to know how to use some things. She supposed he didn’t mean it quite so literally but still had to work hard to suppress a mirthless laugh.

“Come closer,” Mr. Furston said and Maggie obliged. She watched him pull a jar out of one of the drawers behind him. “Hold out your hand.” She did and felt a tubular, slimy creature fall into her hand. “Leeches,” Mr. Furston said. “Very purifying. Suck out all the bad blood and with it, all the pain.”

Maggie felt a small prick on her palm and then a suctioning sensation, watched as the creature swelled with her blood. Trying not to wrinkle her nose, she grabbed the animal by its head, twisted, and pulled. Out of the corner of her eye, she could see Angus flinching.

“Thank you,” she said, placing the leech back in the jar, “But I’m really just looking for the willow bark. Do you have any?”

“Afraid not, my dear. I prefer to treat the root, not the manifestation. And the root is always in the blood.”

As he said this, Mr. Furston picked the leech up and squeezed it, collecting its contents—what had previously been Maggie’s contents—in the jar.

“Thank you,” Maggie said, nodding at the man. “We should be going then.”

“May I interest you in some goat’s dung, lass? Very good for sprinkling into cuts.”

“That’s very kind of you but no.”

Outside the shop, Maggie turned to Rupert and Angus. “That was fruitless.” Just as she had expected it to be.

“Well,” Angus began, looking at Rupert, “There is always…”

“No, we shouldna take her there.”

“Take me where?” Maggie asked.

“Well, Arthur Duncan, the judge, his wife has a bit of a, a bit of a collection herself,” Rupert said.

“But she’s a witch,” Angus interjected.

“Aye. That she is. Probably.”

“But she has an apothecary?”

“Of a sort.”

“Take me there then,” Maggie said. “Please.”

“I dinna think it would be wise for us to take a lass to such a place,” Rupert said.

“Or ourselves,” Angus added.

“I’m sure I’d be fine,” Maggie said.

“Aye. You’d probably get on,” Rupert agreed. “Geillis Duncan’s a strange bird. As are you.”

“I’m flattered.”

“But we’ll not risk it,” Rupert said. “Don’t want you getting any ideas.”

“Might as well stop at the pub while we’re here, eh?” Angus asked.

“Of course,” said Rupert. “Come along, lass.”

Maggie dawdled, trying to come up with some reasonable objection to this, but eventually decided to follow. Colum had been right, then. His lackeys were appreciating the trip into town, treating it as yet another opportunity to get drunk. She chastised herself, realizing that wasn’t quite fair. Rupert and Angus were not exactly Colum’s lackeys. From her observations of castle politics, they seemed to be Dougal’s. She imagined an inebriated Rupert, struggling to keep himself on the horse, pulling her with him as he swayed in the saddle. If that happened, she’d walk, she resolved.

Walking past a brown, wooden house with striking blue plaster wrapped around the second floor, Maggie noticed a sign hanging just outside the door: Arthur Duncan, followed by a title written in English that she couldn’t understand. Without a word, she broke off from Rupert and Angus and opened the door, not even bothering to knock.

“Mistress. Mistress, what are you doing? Oy, Maggie,” she heard Rupert call after her.

Turning to look at them, Maggie waved and shut the door behind her, grinning, perhaps a bit cruelly, at Rupert and Angus’s stunned faces. In front of her, stood a winding staircase. To her left, a heavy-looking, wooden door. It seemed more likely that this mysterious Geillis Duncan would operate from the unusual yet beautiful blue part of the house than the standard, wooden portion. Maggie ascended the stairs and didn’t question the wisdom of what she had just done until she reached the top only to be confronted with another wooden door, this one engraved with a half-moon and stars. There had been no sign for Geillis Duncan and her apothecary outside, no advertisement inviting people to come in. Maggie realized she had just walked into a private residence. She knocked hesitantly.

“Yes, Arthur, I’m decent,” a trilling voice answered.

“It’s, it’s not Arthur.”

“Well, isn’t that exciting,” the voice said, moving closer to the door.

The door opened, revealing the body behind the voice, a refined yet far from delicate woman wearing the fur of some grey and even somewhat silvery animal—perhaps a wolf—wrapped around her torso, a rather unremarkable grey skirt, and magnificently vibrant red shoes. Her hair was almost as bright, pulled back tightly from her face before spilling loosely down her back. Her exposed forehead and wide, questioning eyes made her look a bit like a beetle, but a very beautiful one.

“Are you coming in, then?” the woman asked, stepping back to let Maggie past.

Maggie walked into the room, amazed at what stood before her. Dried herbs hung from the vaulted ceiling, just as in Mr. Furston’s shop, but in addition to this, were tables strewn with books—in various different languages, Maggie noticed—a metal cauldron on the center table and smaller glass containers, held above a row of flaming candles by a chandelier-like metal structure, each glass filled with a different colored liquid, bubbling and emitting surprisingly sweet smells—rose hip, heather, thyme. Above this table, was an actual chandelier, once gold, now stained with ash from the fire and dried blue, yellow, and red candle-wax. A fire roared in the hearth, making the room almost uncomfortably warm. Maggie wondered how Geillis could stand her furry attire, which crept all the way up to her neck. Next to the fire was a daybed, adorned with a silk sheet the same light blue as the exterior of the house. Next to that, a wooden arm jutted out from the wall, glass baubles draped over it.

Maggie tempered her curiosity for long enough to stop examining the room and look at the woman who was observing her with a similar level of interest.

“Are you Mistress Duncan?” she asked.

“I am,” the woman answered. “Geillis will do just fine, though.”

“Mairead Ó Broin—or just Maggie actually.”

“Welcome, Just Maggie. What can I do for you?”

“I, well, I heard you had your own apothecary. I’ve been working at the castle—Castle Leoch.”

“I’ve heard of it.”

“Yes, well, I’ve been working there as a healer for a few months and I was hoping to get some supplies from you, or really just one thing.”

“You were directed to come to me?”

“No, I was directed to Mr. Furston, but he didn’t have what I need.”

“Ah, well, probably for the best,” Geillis said. “Mr Furston wouldn’t know the difference between _Cantharellus cibarius_ and _Hygrophoropsis aurantiaca_ if he were choking on it.” Geillis smirked. “The second one is—”

“Poisonous,” Maggie said, “I know.”

Geillis nodded, impressed.

“What I mean to say is, the man doesn’t know what he’s doing.”

“He seemed to think the same about me,” Maggie said.

“Men are inclined to think that about women, especially women as young as yourself.”

“I suppose they are.”

“So, what is it you need?”

“I was hoping you had white willow bark.”

“I’m all out, I’m afraid. What are you using it for?”

“I thought it might help the MacKenzie with his pains.”

“Aye. That it might. It’s also good for headaches, especially those caused by too much drink.” Geillis paused. “I suppose you don’t have a problem with that.”

“Not usually,” Maggie said, drawing her hand up to rub the back of her head.

“There’s a willow about thirty miles north of the castle. I was planning to go harvest more bark when it grows warmer. You’re welcome to come with me.”

“Thank you. That would be fantastic. Colum, or the MacKenzie, suggested—ordered more like—that I be accompanied by his brother, but if I were to go with you, perhaps he would make an exception.”

“He was going to send Dougal with you?” Geillis asked. “Well, I don’t suppose there’s any reason why he couldn’t come with the two of us.”

“But this way he wouldn’t have to. He’s—”

“He’s a very interesting man, isn’t he? Complex.”

“I suppose so.”

Maggie’s contemplation of what Geillis could possibly see in Dougal was cut short by Angus and Rupert’s appearance in the doorway.

“You disobey me again and I’ll—” Angus began, grabbing hold of Maggie’s arm.

“And you’ll do what, Mr. Mhor?” Geillis asked. “Pick her up and throw her over your knee? She looks like she’d put up a good fight.”

“We really must be going,” Rupert said. “Lovely to see you as always, Mistress Duncan.”

“Oh, but I have so many questions,” Geillis said, clapping her hands together. “How did _you_ become the healer for all of Leoch, not questioning your competence, of course. It’s only, you do look rather young.”

“I’m eighteen,” Maggie said.

“And what happened to Mr. Beaton?”

“He was ill when I arrived. I did my best for him but he died anyway.”

“Did you kill him?” Geillis asked, pressing her fingers to her chin like an expectant child.

“No,” Maggie said, taken aback.

“Ah, well, that’s good.”

“All right, then,” Rupert said, chuckling awkwardly, clearly uncomfortable. “We’ll be leaving then.”

“Lovely to meet you, Maggie. Send me a message when you plan to go for the willow bark. I’ll join your expedition.” Geillis nodded at Maggie, then called after them as they left. “And Mr. Mhor. If you enter my store and threaten my customers again, I’ll do a lot worse than lay you over my knee. I’ll turn you into a pigeon.”

Angus and Rupert stopped in the stairwell, looking at each other in horror.

“She couldn’t do that,” Rupert said with a notable lack of certainty.

“Perhaps yes, perhaps no. I suggest you don’t try to find out,” Geillis said with a laugh before closing the door.

Outside, Angus turned to Maggie again. “We told you we weren’t stopping at Mistress Duncan’s. We told you to come along with us. When I tell you to do something, you do it.”

“Really, Angus,” Maggie said, using his Christian name for the first time, “Have you been paying attention? Because that doesn’t seem to be the way it’s been going.”

Before Angus could answer, Rupert breathed a sigh of exasperation and came to stand between them. “I know you’re accustomed to being the smartest lass in the room but if you could at least try to behave with some civility—”

“Civility?” Maggie asked. “Do you think your own behavior towards me has been very civil? Have you considered that?”

“I had not,” Rupert said with more sincerity than Maggie expected. “Now, we’re going to the pub with no more interruptions. Aye?”

Maggie nodded.

At the tavern door, Rupert stopped Maggie. “This is no place for a woman. Why don’t you wait outside?”

“You want me to wait for you outside?”

“That’s what I just said.”

“Like a horse?”

“Fine." Rupert threw his hands in the air in exasperation. "Come in if you like but I warned you.”

Maggie followed her companions in, walking past men already slumped over tables, others laughing gaily or playing cards. One of the men grabbed at her waist as she walked by, prompting both her and—to her surprise—Angus to glare at him, Angus offering some choice words along with the stare.

“That is precisely what I was talking about,” Rupert said as they sat down at a table in the far corner. “No place for a woman.”

“I can’t say I entirely disagree with you,” Maggie said. “But I’m used to it. I worked at several bars before coming to Castle Leoch.”

“You were a barmaid?” Rupert asked.

“For a time, yes.”

“You know what they say about barmaids,” Angus said, winking at Rupert, his moment of relative chivalry completely forgotten. Apparently, Maggie’s honor was not to be assailed by strangers but rather by him.

“No, I can’t imagine what men like you say about barmaids,” Maggie said.

“They say they’re little more than whores,” Angus answered, smiling to reveal a missing front tooth.

“And what’s wrong with that?” Maggie asked.

Rupert and Angus looked at her aghast, the smiles wiped from their faces.

“If you can brag about your trips to the whorehouse, why do you insist on impugning the character of the women who actually work there?”

“Well, you see, Mistress,” Rupert began, “Men have these urges that they need to satisfy. It’s just our nature. But women aren’t like that so when they engage in these acts with men—for money no less—they’re debasing themselves.”

“And you don’t care that you’re participating in this debasement?”

Rupert and Angus looked at each and then back at Maggie, speechless.

“Well, I think that’s the stupidest thing I’ve ever heard,” Maggie said.

“That’s a bit harsh,” Rupert muttered.

“You’re right. I’ve been in the company of you two all day. Surely, I’ve heard something stupider just in the last hour.”

With that, Maggie stood up violently, walked back to the door, giving her groper a murderous glance, and left. From the corner of her eye, she could see Rupert following her but decided not to acknowledge him, kicking at the side of the building with her back to him.

“I’m sorry, Mistress. We didna mean to offend you when we spoke of barmaids. We know, of course, that you’re no whore.”

“You didn’t offend me with that. You offended me when you spoke so disdainfully of those women in the brothels.”

“Ah, I see. You have a sister who’s a whore, then?”

Maggie spun around. “No, I don’t have a sister who’s a whore. I don’t need a sister to see the humanity of those women.”

“Aye,” Rupert said, slowly, even contemplatively. “Well, I’ll give that some thought. I do apologize, Mistress.”

“That’s,” Maggie began, shocked by Rupert’s thoughtfulness, “That’s all right.”

She spent the next few hours in the pub, drinking one ale to Rupert and Angus’s four and genuinely enjoying their hunting stories as they tried to one-up each other. She even shared some of her disastrous hunting attempts with them and was surprised when they laughed along with her, instead of at her.

“In my defense,” she said, “I’m a pretty good trapper. My father taught me that. No one ever taught me to hunt, though.”

“We’ll have to remedy that,” Rupert said.

“I’ve never met a woman hunter before, but I figure you’d make a fine one,” Angus added.

Maggie did have to plead with them to leave for the castle in time to make it back for dinner but she had expected this. Fortunately, neither of them was particularly drunk. Rupert even offered her some advice as they rode together.

“You have to relax,” he said, “You’re making the horse nervous.”

“She’s making _me_ nervous,” Maggie answered.

It was dark when they arrived at the castle but Maggie could smell roast meat and vegetables wafting from the kitchen, signaling that they were not so late as to have missed all of the food. She thanked Rupert and Angus for escorting her into town, trying to sound as genuine as possible. In the end, she had appreciated it.

Rupert nodded at her. “I do hope we can be friends, Maggie.”

“As do I,” Angus said.

“Now that Jamie’s leaving and all, you’ll be needing some more friends.”

Maggie said nothing, struggling to make sense of Rupert’s kindness and, even more so, awareness of her close relationship with Jamie. If Rupert had noticed, who else had? Or perhaps more appropriately, who hadn’t? She felt her cheeks flush.

“Not to say that I would replace Jamie or anything untoward,” Rupert added, evidently interpreting Maggie’s silence as anger. Then, growing even more flustered, he said, “And not to say that your relationship with Jamie is at all untoward.”

Maggie’s face filled with even more color.

“No, I’m not offended. Thank you, Rupert. And you, Angus.”

She smiled at them, then turned to walk back to the castle, hearing Angus teasing Rupert for his lack of dignity. Then a small thump, a shriek of pain and anger, and a returned volley. Maggie shook her head, deciding not to look back.


	14. Departure

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Maggie and Jamie say their goodbyes before he leaves for France

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The songs for this chapter are: “The Moon Song” by Karen O. (when Jamie and Maggie are talking in the stables) and “I Will Never Fall in Love With You” by Sam Pinkerton (when Jamie and Maggie are saying goodbye)

Jamie returned from Inverness the day before he was to leave for France and spent most of the day running around the castle preparing for his trip. Upon reflection that evening, Maggie was embarrassed to realize she had spent a good deal of her time running after him, exchanging a few pleasantries in the hallway but never catching him for long enough to truly talk or joke or laugh or do whatever it was that they did together that she was already preemptively missing. She tried to tell herself that she would be fine after Jamie left, because she would be. Nonetheless, she had only been at the castle a few weeks before Jamie arrived and she saw the two—Jamie and Leoch—as inextricably linked. Even the few days he had been away in Inverness had left her feeling strangely untethered. She had tried to keep busy, helping Mrs. Fitz whenever she could, going on her trip into town for the willow bark, keeping an eye on Broden and the other children. Mostly, she found herself arranging and rearranging the supplies Mr. Beaton had left behind, spending an inordinate amount time in the dark dungeon-like space in which he had lived and worked.

At dinner, Maggie finally found Jamie sitting still. As she walked past the table he was sharing with Murtagh, Jamie nodded at her but did not invite her to join them.

“Should I leave you two alone?” Maggie asked, hoping Jamie would say no.

“Perhaps,” he said. “But, can you wait for me after the meal is finished?”

“Of course,” Maggie said, trying to hide her disappointment.

She elected to eat in the kitchen with Mrs. Fitz and the other women but kept peeking out the door to see when Jamie might come looking for her. He and Murtagh were both leaning forward on their benches, bringing their heads close together to whisper to each other. Maggie understood Jamie wanting time alone to say goodbye to his godfather but, considering that he had just travelled to Inverness with Murtagh and would be travelling with him to Paris, she wasn’t sure this private meal was necessary. Still, she was gratified to see Murtagh brush off Rupert when he tried to join them. If she was going to be excluded, she preferred that she not be the only one, although she felt somewhat guilty for the sentiment. As soon as Jamie stood up from his seat, he was inundated by well-wishers. He had been trying to keep his departure somewhat quiet but had clearly been unsuccessful. Jamie didn’t seem to mind too much, though, animatedly chatting with them. Maggie craned her neck to get a better look at his face and see if he was looking for her, scanning the room perhaps, eager to get to her. He didn’t appear to be. She sighed and turned her back to him, choosing to sweep the floor a third time in order to feel like she was doing something besides just waiting for him.

After what felt like an hour, Maggie peered around the door to check on Jamie’s progress. He was sitting down again, nodding and smirking as Rupert and Angus performed an enthusiastic and, Maggie was sure, raunchy pantomime. If he preferred to listen to his friends talk about their trips to the whorehouse or something of similar ilk rather than say a proper goodbye to her, she might as well go to bed. He could come find her in the morning, if he could be bothered.

She trudged down the passageway but stopped when someone grabbed her hand. She turned to see Jamie.

“Come with me,” he said still holding onto her hand.

She nodded and followed wordlessly as Jamie led her outside, toward the stables.

“Were you going up to your room?” he asked. “I thought you were going to wait for me?”

“Well, I wasn’t sure how long I’d be waiting. I thought you might have forgotten about me.”

“Never.”

Maggie bit her lip to keep from smiling too widely. Then, she remembered her anger at being set aside for so long. “Did you really just expect me to wait for you forever?” she asked, “To constantly be at your beck and call?”

“I gather I should not have,” Jamie said.

“No you should not have.”

“I’m sorry. Murtagh wanted to discuss particulars of the trip and then other people wanted to come say goodbye and Angus and Rupert had a story to tell me and I didn’t feel I could put them off and I just lost track of—”

“Of me.”

“Only for a little while,” Jamie said, before adding playfully, “Could you find it within yourself to forgive me?”

“I suppose,” Maggie said, gently bumping her body into Jamie’s.

When they reached the stables, Jamie plopped down into a pile of hay, dropping her hand. Maggie tucked both hands underneath her knees and clenched and unclenched the hand Jamie had been holding, feeling the warmth of it.

“So,” she said, “Do you have anything to show me?”

“No. Should I?”

“You made it sound like you had something.”

“Is the pleasure of my company not enough?”

Maggie knew how the game worked, knew that she was supposed to joke with him and tell him that no, it was not enough, but she couldn’t bring herself to do it tonight, not when he was going away for God knew how long.

“Of course it’s enough,” she said.

Jamie looked surprised but pleased. “You keep being so nice to me, Maggie, I won’t want to leave.”

Maggie knew he was joking but couldn’t help holding onto his words more than she should have. Ever since Jamie told her of his planned voyage to France, Maggie had been trying to devise ways to convince him to stay, first consciously and then, after she had resigned herself to his leaving, unconsciously—a constant stream of plans running through her head as she went about the rest of her day. She had already played out every possible scenario in her head and in each of them, Jamie decided to leave anyway. She just wasn’t enough to keep him there. In order to distract herself from this reality, she decided to change the subject.

“So, how was Inverness?”

She tried to listen as Jamie described the scale of the town, listing all of its features with a reverence slightly tempered by frequent comparisons to Paris. “Of course, it’s not as large as Paris.” “It’s not as grand as Paris.” “There are far more places to buy books in Paris.”

“Well good for Paris,” Maggie muttered under her breath.

“What?”

“I said Paris sounds… good.”

“Yes,” Jamie agreed, nodding excitedly.

Still, he continued to speak of Inverness, not Paris. Maggie wanted to pointed out to him how much he clearly loved Scotland, how, even in the midst of the obligatory Paris comparisons, his eyes lit up as he described the Highlands’ largest city.

Eventually, Maggie stopped even trying to listen to what Jamie was saying, transfixed instead by _how_ he was saying it—the way he formed smiles around his words as he spoke, the way he leaned forward before a particularly interesting bit of information as if he had been waiting to share this news with Maggie, and only Maggie, all day, the way he punctuated the end of each story with a widening of his eyes, allowing Maggie a better look at the little bit of hazel in each green eye. She tried to imagine life at Leoch without Jamie, without his physical presence and mannerisms, but couldn’t. _I had a life before you, Jamie Fraser_ , she thought to herself.

But was it a life she wanted to go back to? She had been coming to realize her dependence on Jamie and felt ashamed. How could she have allowed this other person, this man, to take over her life so entirely? Isn’t this why she had always been so averse to marriage? No, she had to answer herself. This was not why she had planned to never marry. She never wanted to marry because she never wanted to be controlled, dominated. She didn’t want to be seen as just some man’s wife, but Jamie would never see her like that, would likely not even present her to others as such. From the moment they met, he had understood her, had seen both the pain and strength she hid from others, even from herself sometimes. _Perhaps, if we were married, though, he would stop seeing me that way?_ She had heard that husbands sometimes changed like this. She shook her head, trying to clear these ridiculous thoughts. She had no business worrying about how Jamie might change after they were married because they were never actually going to _be_ married. She wasn’t sure she wanted that and she was even less sure Jamie did and, regardless of either of their wants, Jamie’s insistence on moving to France to become a glorified mercenary made a marriage absolutely impossible.

“Maggie, are you all right?” Jamie asked, pulling her out of her reverie.

“I’m fine,” she lied.

“What are you thinking about?”

“I’m fine,” Maggie said again. She didn’t want to tell Jamie everything she was thinking and thought he might not want to hear it either. Some of the details might have been quite shocking to him. She drew her knees more tightly to her chest. She could feel the cold air blowing through the slats of the stable wall but didn’t think she had the wherewithal to feel cold, not with everything else occupying her thoughts. She noticed Jamie shiver as a gust of wind passed by them.

“Are you nervous about leaving?” she found herself asking.

“Not really,” Jamie said. “I’ve been there before.”

“Yes, but before, you were studying, not fighting.”

Maggie knew her suggestion that Jamie should have been nervous was not helpful but she felt uncontrollably unfiltered, as if some external force had decided on complete honesty without consulting her. She did know she would regret any pretense or dissembling should this turn out to be her last meeting with Jamie but she couldn’t bear to view this as the end and pushed the thought from her head. 

“Still,” Jamie said with a lopsided grin. “I’m not nervous. And you shouldn’t be either.”

He patted her on the arm and Maggie felt his hand tremble slightly. Examining him more closely, Maggie saw that his entire body was shaking and was surprised that none of it registered on his face or in his voice. Without thinking about what she was doing, she grabbed one of his hands and held it in both of hers, trying to steady it.

“Maggie…” Jamie began.

“You’re cold,” Maggie said, dropping his hand and standing up. She suddenly felt the need to get away from him, worried about what she might do if she stayed there for too long. “I’ll go get you some blankets.”

“Maggie, that’s not necessary.” Jamie put his hand up as if to take hold of hers and pull her back down but instead let it hang in the air before lowering it slowly back down to his side.

“Nonsense. If you’re going to be travelling a great distance, you’ll need to be rested and there’s no way you can sleep if you’re not warm enough. I’ll just go up to my room and get them.”

“Maggie, I’ve already told you, I’m not going to take the blankets off your bed.”

“It’s fine, really. I’m just going to go get them. I’ll be back.”

As she walked away, Maggie looked back at Jamie, just able to make out his look of consternation in the dark. Back inside the castle walls, the only sources of light were the torches lining the silent passageways. The whole castle seemed to be asleep and Maggie realized how late it was. She wondered if she’d find Jamie sleeping when she returned.

As soon as she had left the stable, Maggie had wanted to go back. While her lack of self-control around Jamie frightened her, the thought of wasting their last few moments together frightened her more. After retrieving the blankets from her room, she rushed back outside, eager to catch Jamie before he fell asleep. She knew that propriety demanded that she return to her room after delivering the blankets, that she should not be spending time alone so late at night with a man, but she also knew that she could hardly stand being away from him. Her fickleness embarrassed her and she shook her head, trying to rid herself of the erratic thinking patterns that had been floating around her head ever since Jamie announced his intention to leave Castle Leoch. As she walked, she made a deal with herself. If she found Jamie asleep, she would cover him in the blanket and trudge back up to the castle. But, if she found him awake, she would stay with him for as long as he let her. When she saw Jamie sitting up, his elbows resting on his knees, she was thrilled.

“Here,” she said, awkwardly placing a blanket over Jamie’s shoulders, more dropping it than draping it.

“Thank you,” he said. “But I’m not actually that cold. I suppose I am a bit nervous”

Maggie nodded. “What are you nervous about?”

“About what you’d expect,” Jamie said. “My father taught me how to hold a sword and how to fight, but I’ve never been in a war before. I’ve never killed anyone and… I’m scared to do that. You must think I’m very cowardly.”

“No.” This was the exact opposite of what Maggie thought. “ _I’m_ scared,” she said. “And I’m not even the one leaving.”

Jamie turned his head and looked directly into Maggie’s eyes. “What are you scared of?”

Maggie looked away. “I’m scared that you won’t come back.” She heard the quaver in her voice and swallowed. She lifted her head to meet Jamie’s gaze and said more firmly, “I’m scared, but I think you’ll be all right. I believe it. Because you’re the strongest person I know and the bravest and that will help you. And you’re kind, far too kind to die so young. I don’t think God would allow it. And you’ve already survived so much.” As she said these words, Maggie smiled, realizing that she believed them.

“Thank you,” Jamie said.

Maggie took his hand more purposefully this time, interlacing her fingers with his, before lying back in the hay. Following her example, Jamie lay back too and for several minutes neither one of them said anything. Through the stable door, Maggie could see the almost full moon. The easing of her fears and racing thoughts seemed to have opened her up to other sensations and she now began to shiver.

“Now you’re cold, though. Here,” Jamie said, extending his blanketed arm so that it looked like a wing and pulling Maggie in close to himself so she was covered too. Then, with his arm still wrapped around her, he took the second blanket she had brought and spread it over both their legs.

Maggie found herself lying against Jamie’s chest, her ear pressed to his heart, hearing its steady rhythm. At first she held her body stiff, unsure of what to do with this closeness. Jamie seemed similarly uncertain. His breathing was shallow and the arm he held around her was tense, barely even touching her. Gradually, though, they both relaxed and Maggie let herself be moved up and down by Jamie’s deepening breaths.

“Do you want to talk more about Paris?” she asked.

“No.”

“Do you want to talk more about anything?”

Jamie shook his head. “No, I’d just like… if you could just stay here for a bit… if that’s all right.”

“Of course it’s all right.”

“You should go back up to the castle soon,” Jamie said sleepily. “But not just now.”

Maggie lifted her head to see Jamie closing his eyes. With his eyes still closed, he added, “But you should go back soon. I don’t want to be improper.”

Maggie thought it was a bit late for that, but agreed, closing her eyes as well.

She woke the next morning to the warmth of the sun and the feeling of Jamie stirring beside her. She smiled contentedly before seeing Jamie jolt upright.

“Maggie, did you spend all night here?”

“Yes.”

“For Christ’s sake, Maggie. You can’t do that.”

Now Maggie sat up too. “ _I_ can’t do that? How am I the one to blame? You’re the one who was asking me to stay.”

“But I told you to go back up to the castle eventually.”

“Yes, but you didn’t mean it.”

“I _did_ mean it, Maggie.”

Maggie let out an exasperated sigh. “I don’t understand what all the fuss is about,” she said. She knew sharing a bed—even a pile of hay—with a man was generally frowned upon, but she didn’t think anyone else had seen them and she wouldn’t have been too perturbed if they had. She certainly didn’t want any young woman to think less of Jamie, but she was not worried about her own marriage prospects in the slightest. “I stayed with you when you were ill and you stayed with me all night when I was sick,” she added.

“That’s different.”

“It’s not so different. Either way, I’m not too concerned.”

“Just think what this would do to your reputation if anyone found out.”

“That’s really for me to worry about, isn’t it?”

“I worry too, though.”

“Well, you shouldn’t.”

“Maggie, sometimes I think you don’t understand—”

“I understand perfectly, Jamie. I just don’t care as much as you do.”

“But you should,” Jamie said. “Or, I don’t know, I don’t want to fight right before leaving.”

“Well, I’m not going to agree with you, so…”

Jamie’s face softened. “I know that, Maggie. I mean, God forbid you ever lose an argument.”

“There’s no reason for me to lose if I’m right.”

Jamie rolled his eyes and bent down to gather up the blankets.

“I’m going to miss you,” he said. “God knows why, but I am.”

“It’s because I’m so charming.”

Maggie smiled and look up at Jamie. She wanted to fling her arms around him, to move towards him until there was no space between her body and his, just as it had been last night, but she didn’t do either of those things. Instead, she just stared at him, marveling at how the bright green of his eyes always surprised her, no matter how many times she saw it.

“Jamie, there you are,” a familiar voice called from behind her. “It’s almost time to…” Murtagh’s speech halted as he noticed Maggie. “Go.”

“Aye,” Jamie said, nodding at Murtagh in a gesture more of dismissal than consent.

Maggie expected some impatience on Murtagh’s part and was surprised at his look of acceptance as he inclined his head in her direction.

“I’ll be seeing you, Maggie,” he said.

“Yes,” Maggie said. “That will be… good.”

As Murtagh left, Jamie looked at the pile of blankets in his hands and placed them back on the ground. Then he stepped toward Maggie and hugged her tightly.

“I’m really glad we met,” he said.

“Me too.”

When Jamie released her from the hug, Maggie tried to say more but no words came to her. Jamie looked similarly lost. Eventually, he nodded at her, said goodbye, and walked away. Seeing him leave, Maggie began to panic. She followed him out of the stable slowly and watched him as he rounded the corner toward Murtagh and the horses.

“Wait!” she called out.

Jamie walked back to her and Maggie wondered if she had called him back just to see that, to imagine him returning many months from now, perhaps even years.

“I—” she began, unsure of where to go next. “I want you to be very careful.”

She kissed Jamie on the cheek, having to stand on her toes in order to reach. When she lowered herself to the ground, both she and Jamie were blushing.

“I believe in you,” she said.

“Thank you, Maggie.”

Jamie reached for her hand and squeezed it gently. Then he turned and disappeared around the other end of the stable. Maggie did not follow him this time, but she also did not walk back to the castle. Instead, she returned to the stable and surreptitiously watched Jamie and Murtagh saddle their horses from behind the stable door. She saw Jamie mount his horse and then turn to look for her once more before leaving. He looked sad but instantly brightened when he noticed Maggie peeking out at him. He smiled and winked at her and Maggie tried to smile back. Unsure of her success, she gave him a small wave as well. She watched Jamie until he and Murtagh were out of sight and then picked up the blankets, held them tightly to herself, and walked up to the castle.

As she strode past the kitchen, Maggie heard the sound of spoons hitting metal pots and women ordering each other about. She could smell the sweetness of the porridge from outside. Mrs. Fitz must have flavored it with dates again. Maggie considered joined the women but decided against it. She questioned her ability to make pleasant conversation, so consumed was she by thoughts of Jamie. Even if she could carry it off, it struck her as disrespectful to observe the departure of her closest friend without even a moment’s reflection. It would be akin to going about her business as normal after a death in the family, she thought before immediately banishing the idea from her mind.

Maggie decided to return to her room instead, where she shook the hay out of the blankets, spread them carefully on her bed—making sure to smooth out every wrinkle—and lay down on top of them. She threw her arms out like a bird in flight and grabbed the top corners of the blankets, drawing them to her body and wrapping herself up, just as Jamie had wrapped both the blankets and himself around her just hours earlier. When she closed her eyes, she could feel his heartbeat echoing in her ears and thumping against her cheek. As she settled into this feeling, the heartbeat grew faster and faster, disturbing her. Sitting up slowly, she realized someone was knocking on the door.

“Mistress, Mistress,” the knocker called. “I have something for you.”

Maggie opened the door to see an excited Broden, his arms weighed down by a great amount of yellow fabric, upon which rested two leather-bound books.

“Where should I put it?” he asked, staggering a bit.

Maggie directed him to the bed, taking the books from him and grabbing one end of the fabric.

“Broden, what is this?”

“It’s a gift,” Broden said, smiling widely.

“For me?”

“Yes.”

“From who?” Maggie asked.

“He didn’t want me to say. He told me you’d know. He also told me to leave you alone after I delivered everything because he said… he said you were a ‘rather unusual woman who might react to the receiving of gifts in strange and even alarming ways.’”

Maggie smirked. Jamie—if that was indeed who this mysterious “he” was—had been right that she was unaccustomed to receiving gifts of any sort, especially ones as large as these. 

She watched Broden back out of the room slowly but called him back when she noticed two pieces of parchment on the floor.

“Are these part of the gift as well?”

“Ooh,” Broden squeaked, hurrying to pick them up and placing one on the fabric and one on top of the books. “I’m going to go now,” he said.

Maggie smiled. “Thank you, Broden.”

When the young boy had left, she turned her attention to the notes he had placed on either pile. They were written in English and she had to sound them out carefully.

The one on the books read: _To practice your letters,_ while the note on the fabric read: _To practice your dancing._

That didn’t seem right, but after reading it several more times, Maggie could not think of any other word those letters could form. She set the note to the side and lay the bunched up fabric flat over the bed in order to inspect it more closely. Maggie gasped. The unfurling of the cloth revealed it to be not just a piece of fabric, but a fully-formed dress.

Maggie had never seen such a brightly colored dress. The woman of her village all wore brown and grey, perhaps green if they were lucky enough to find the material. Even the women of Leoch didn’t seem to stray too far from these colors, adding blue to the mix but generally leaving it at that. In addition to the bright hue, the dress was also adorned with intricately-rendered blue and pink flowers, each attached to a thin brown stem. Maggie ran her fingers over the yellow of the dress, amazed at its smoothness. She wasn’t sure what type of fabric it was, but knew it could not be wool. She stood staring at the dress for long enough to feel silly. She had never cared much about appearance before. In the past, a book would have excited her much more than a dress. But, in the past, she had not had access to whole library, nor had she ever seen a garment as remarkable as the one that lay before her. Still, she forced herself to turn away from the dress and open the first of the books. As she did this, a letter fell out, this time written in Gaelic.

_Dear Mairead,_

_I hope you will accept these gifts as (an inadequate) repayment of the enormous debt I owe you. I am deeply grateful for all you have done for me over the past few months. Without your healing skills and quick thinking with Randall, I am not sure I would be here today. Above all, though, I am grateful for your friendship._

_I went to Inverness with the purpose of acquiring supplies for my trip and buying you a few books as a token of my appreciation. However, while there, I stumbled upon this dress and thought it might suit you. To be more exact, I actually stumbled across a woman wearing this dress. She was a fairly proper English woman and as I came upon her, she had just had someone trample upon her skirt, causing it to tear. I suppose she must have been travelling with quite a wardrobe because, instead of having her maid fix it, she agreed to sell it to me instead, at a very cheap price. (I mention this only because it seems like something you might worry about.) I mended the tear it as best I could. Jenny taught me to sew when I was young but I do not have a very fine hand. I hope you will not mind. I imagine that with a fancy dress such as this, you may feel more able to attend special gatherings. Perhaps you will even learn to dance like a civilized person._

_Now, because I know you are first and foremost a woman of intellect and because I did not want to be yelled at for forgetting this, I am also giving you these two books so you can practice your English. The first is written by an Irishman by the name of Jonathan Swift and is called Gulliver’s Travels. The second is a blank journal so you do not run out of parchment for your writing. When I return, I expect you will be talking and dressing like a refined English gentlewoman. Only I will know about the wild Irish woman that lies beneath._

_Finally, I must admit that my motives are not entirely altruistic. By giving you these items, I also hope that I am making myself somewhat less easy to forget. My wish is that you will use them and think of me. I know I will think of you while I am away._

_With fond appreciation,_

_James Alexander Malcolm Mackenzie Fraser_

 

The formal ending made Maggie smile. She had never seen Jamie’s full name written out like that before. She also had to chuckle at Jamie’s use of her more proper name. Jamie’s tutor must have taught him to write like that. Maggie found the mix of formality and humor in the letter itself somewhat hard to parse, but enjoyed it nonetheless. She knew Jamie was poking fun at her with the various allusions to English civility. However, she was unsure if his reference to her as “a woman of intellect” was meant to be taken seriously or not. Either way, the letter thrilled her. She read it through a second time, going back over the last line again and again. _I know I will think of you while I am away._ She wondered if Jamie really worried she might forget him. She didn’t think this was even possible.

She was also deeply touched by Jamie’s mending of her dress. She had never met a man who knew how to sew. She moved back to the dress and searched through the bulk of the skirt, looking for a visible stitch. Finally she found it, a jagged, yellow line running from the edge of the skirt to the bodice. She traced the path with her finger, feeling Jamie’s labor in each rough thread. He was right. His sewing was not especially delicate. In fact, it was fairly clumsy, but this made Maggie love it even more. In a crowded room, she doubted anyone would notice the haphazard mending, but she would know it was there, would know that she was wearing Jamie’s handwork draped across her body.

She lay back down on the bed, placing the dress on top of hers and opening up the first book. On the left hand page, was an ink portrait of well-coifed gentleman. On the right, an overwhelming array of words cluttered up the page. Maggie could decipher the words _travels, world,_ and _Dublin,_ and not much else. She stared at it as if waiting for the other words’ meanings to reveal themselves. When they did not, she resolved to return to it later armed with her Gaelic-English dictionary. That could wait for another day, though. She placed the book to her side and began to mentally construct the beginnings of a letter she knew she would not be able to send.

_Dear Jamie…_


	15. How to Fight Loneliness

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Maggie adjusts to life at the castle without Jamie

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The songs for this chapter are “Coeur Volant” by Zaz and “Can’t Take You With Me” by Bahamas for the beginning scenes and “Who Knows Where The Time Goes” by Judy Collins for the final scene.

The week after Jamie left, Maggie dreamed about him every night. In some dreams, years had passed without the two of them seeing each other, but neither had ever forgotten the other and one day they met again and talked and laughed and somehow both knew that they would never be apart again. In others, Jamie returned after mere weeks, deciding that Maggie had been right all along and a trip to Paris—even with its fancy society and dainty, practically floating women—was unnecessary. In her favorite dreams, Jamie never left at all.

The dreams were pleasant enough—more than pleasant in fact—but generally unhelpful. Maggie would always wake up with a smile on her face, then sit there as the smile slowly faded when she realized that Jamie had not, in fact, returned to her. In addition to the pain of that realization, experienced over and over again, the dreams left Maggie feeling silly and slight. Only foolish women let themselves become this absorbed by the men in their lives. Only foolish _people_ let themselves think this much about anyone. After waking from a particularly vivid dream, Maggie would often look around her small room, scanning the corners for anyone who may have witnessed this embarrassing spectacle. There was, of course, never anyone there and even if there had been, they would not have been privy to the contents of her dreams. Nonetheless, Maggie felt very exposed.

When she walked the halls of the castle, she felt as if everyone could see her shameful preoccupation with Jamie. For the most part, she was still a rather anonymous presence at Leoch—as she preferred to be—and most of the castle’s other occupants didn’t pay her much attention. However, whenever she encountered Mrs. Fitz or even Rupert and Angus, she could read the pity on their faces and in the carefulness of their words. She began spending most of her days in her room or in Mr. Beaton’s cavernous healing chamber, waiting for someone to need her.

Today, Maggie stood at the chamber’s large center table, grinding dandelion root in the hopes that someone would require it. She knew she shouldn’t wish illness on anyone, but more than anything, she wanted something to distract her, to make her feel useful, depended upon instead of dependent.

“One hundred and six,” Broden said from across the room.

“What?”

“There are one hundred and six jars here.”

“Right,” Maggie said, remembering that she had asked Broden to count the number of vials that lined the shelves of the room.

Broden had followed her down to the chamber that morning, regaling her with stories of his shinty victories. Maggie had listened intently as Broden described ducking and dodging around the other boys in order to score the winning goal for his team.

“They didn’t expect me to be good ‘cause I’m small,” he had said. “But that’s why I’m so fast.”

Upon Maggie’s request, Broden had even acted out the victorious moment, using chairs as stand-ins for the opposing players. However, when he was done, he had fallen silent and looked at her intently. Apparently, it was Maggie’s turn to entertain with a story. While Maggie had always been eager to trade stories back and forth in Donegal, since leaving home, she had found that quiet served her better. The less she drew attention to herself, the better off she usually was. As she gradually adjusted to the safety of Castle Leoch, this had changed somewhat, especially around Jamie. With Jamie gone, however, she had grown quiet again, even around Broden. Unable to think of anything to say to him, Maggie had instead asked Broden to assist her in an “inventory” of the shelves, a meaningless task given that she had already carefully examined them many times over. 

Broden didn’t know this, though, and he smiled at Maggie, excited to be of help.

“Thank you, Broden,” Maggie said, hoping Broden would think of something else to say and relieve her of having to speak.

Broden obliged.

“Mistress,” he said. “I’ve been wondering. Why aren’t you married?”

Maggie immediately regretted leaving Broden to fill the silence. 

Her first thought was that she was too young. This was what she had said in Donegal when people began to ask her this very question.

“My parents would like me to wait until I’m at least sixteen,” she would say as her fifteen-year-old peers were getting betrothed.

“She’ll wait til she’s even older if I have anything to say about it,” her father would add.

But that was three years ago. Back in her village, an eighteen-year-old unmarried woman was practically an old maid. She supposed she must seem similarly ancient here. Or, at least to Broden, who likely saw her as much older than she saw herself.

“Well,” she said. “I suppose I don’t really want to be.”

“Every woman wants to be married,” Broden said matter-of-factly.

Maggie smirked and put her hands on her hips, surprised at his confidence. “Oh, really? You’re an expert then, are you?”

Broden blushed. “Well, that’s what my mother says anyway.”

Maggie frowned. She was fairly certain Broden’s mother was a widow, never having remarried after the death of Broden’s father. Broden’s mother rarely spent time with the other women in the kitchen, either. This struck Maggie as a lonely existence. Perhaps, Broden’s mother assumed this was the experience of all unmarried women, Maggie thought, trying to convince herself this was not her own experience. She had, of course, been lonely—and scared—for years after the death of her parents, but since arriving at Castle Leoch all that had changed. She had been feeling lonely again as of late—ever since Jamie’s departure—but she tried not to think about this for too long.

“I don’t think I’ll ever get married,” she said.

“Ah, don’t say that, Mistress.”

“I’m fine with it,” Maggie said, mostly believing herself. “You know, Broden, I have a bit of a headache and it doesn’t look like anyone needs me here, so I’m going to go lie down for a while.”

Broden nodded, looking sad. “Did I say something wrong?”

“No, of course not,” Maggie reassured him, feeling guilty for her abrupt exit.

Back in her room, she chastised herself for being so sensitive, flighty, silly. It was not so much Broden’s question that bothered her, but rather her response to it. In the past, she had found questions about marriage mildly annoying at the worst. She would simply respond that she was waiting, secretly knowing that she’d be waiting for quite some time if she had her way of things. This time the question had thrown her into a state of confusion. Did she suddenly want to be married? It was never an idea she entertained with any seriousness, not until she met Jamie that was. Maggie made a disgruntled harrumphing noise, like that of a horse. This was getting ridiculous. _She_ was getting ridiculous.

That night she prayed for Jamie’s safety, as she had every night since his departure. When she fell asleep, Jamie was there waiting for her, filling the entire space of her dreams with his presence, but, when she woke the next morning, she was alone, staring into an empty room.

A few days later, Maggie found herself back in Mr. Beaton’s cellar, once again with Broden for company.

“I’ve been thinking, Mistress,” he said. “If you’re still not married by the time I’m eighteen, I’ll marry you.”

Maggie almost dropped the vial she was holding but managed to get a firm hold on both it and her face, swallowing a broad grin as she turned to look at Broden. “Thank you, Broden. That’s very gallant of you but I’ll be older then too.”

“I don’t mind.”

“You might.”

“I don’t think so.”

Broden’s face was set determinedly. He looked so earnest, Maggie found herself unsure of what to say.

“Well,” she said. “I guess you have some time to think about it.”

Later that day, hiding away in her room yet again, Maggie returned to the letter she had started writing to Jamie over a week ago. Although she knew she would never be able to reach him, she had begun the letter as if Jamie would actually read it, thanking him for the beautiful dress and the very thoughtful gifts of a book and journal and gently pushing back against some of the jokes he had made at her expense, such as his description of her as a wild Irishwoman—even though she liked to think this was written with a fair deal of affection. From there, she had transitioned into more of a diary style, recounting each day to Jamie, thinking that she would at least have a record of her time to share with him when he returned. She quickly gave up on this, however, when she realized just how boring each day became when written out on paper—and, she had to admit, when experienced in real life as well. Today, however, she felt she had something worth reporting.

 _Believe it or not,_ she wrote. _I have just received a marriage proposal of sorts. Don’t worry- my suitor has allowed me to defer my answer for ten years- til he turns eighteen. So, you won’t be losing me just yet._

Maggie reread that last line and crossed it out, embarrassed by its potential insinuations despite the unlikeliness of Jamie ever reading it. She shook her head and drew an x through everything she had just written. Then she scanned her eyes up to the top of the paper and drew several lines through the first words on the page, _Dear Jamie._

There was more to life than James Alexander Malcom Mackenzie Fraser and she was not the kind of woman to sit around waiting for a man to return to her, putting her life on hold so nothing would be different when he came home.

Leoch wasn’t even home for Jamie, not really. Who could say if he ever would return? He had said he would of course, but that was before. In Paris, with all the elegant women, he would forget her quickly enough. If that didn’t do the trick, his fighting in the rest of France—even other parts of the continent—would surely push thoughts of her out of his head. With all the bloodshed and danger, he’d have far more important issues to occupy him and then, when it was over, when it was finally safe for him to return, he’d go back to Lallybroch, his true home, set himself up as a farmer and a leader of his clan, forget all about what had come before—not just the battles abroad, but the pain at home. He’d never be able to forget his father, of course, nor would he want to, but perhaps he could mostly forget the flogging, bury it beneath other memories until its particulars were flattened, as if it had happened to someone else. Then he could forget what came next as well. The flight to Leoch, the estrangement from his family, the price on his head. That’s what Leoch was to Jamie, Maggie realized, a place he was forced to be, a place away from his family. It was not truly home and, if her presence had provided him with some respite from the pain of that knowledge, she was glad, but she still had to admit she was just that—a respite, a stop along the way to something better. She didn’t feel bitter over it. In fact, the idea of Jamie’s future at Lallybroch made her happy—in a way. The thought that his life would be able to continue at least somewhat normally someday was comforting to her.

Even as she wished the best for him, though, Maggie felt embarrassed to be wishing anything for him at all, or at least to spend so much time wishing. For all the reasons she had listed—and likely more that she had not yet considered—Maggie doubted she was occupying Jamie’s thoughts as much as he occupied hers and the inequity made her feel small.

She placed the parchment she had been writing on in the palm of her hand and moved to crumple it but stopped herself at the last moment. Instead, she flattened it against the book Jamie had given her—a book that surely could not have been written by a real Irishman, not if it were in English—and then slipped it inside the book’s pages, along with the original letter Jamie had given her. She opened the trunk at the end of her bed where she was storing the dress, unfolded the fabric, and then tucked the book inside. Now, she resolved, this foolishness would stop.

 

The dreams about Jamie did not immediately cease, but they were gone as soon as she woke, in contrast to earlier, when Maggie felt she had been passing through her days in an extended dream-like haze. Now, she threw herself into life at the castle as best she could, still feeling safest at its peripheries, but dipping her toe into the center every once in a while. She spent more and more time in the kitchen with Mrs. Fitz and the other women, making herself useful in whatever way she could. Word spread of her healing services—mostly through Mrs. Fitz—and soon people were coming to her with ailments that they had previously been treating themselves or simply suffering through. She even availed herself of Rupert and Angus’s offer of friendship. They continued to tease her, but more good-naturedly than before, more like an equal than a woman who needed to be put in her place. When Maggie proved herself downright unteachable in the art of marksmanship, leaving bullet holes in a tree a good three yards away from the buck she was aiming at and proving Angus’s predictions that she’d make a fine hunter wrong, he managed to keep his laughter at a minimum and merely commented that this was likely for the best as he didn’t much care for the idea of her with a gun anyway.

“Why not?” Maggie asked.

“Well,” Angus said. “You’re a fairly ill-tempered woman already.”

Maggie remembered her first interaction with Angus and Broden’s assurance that he “didn’t usually fight women.”

“ _I’m_ ill-tempered? What about you?”

“Aye,” Rupert said. “We’ve been trying to wrestle the gun out of Angus’s hands for years. Seeing as we failed at that, it seems best not to arm any more hotheads such as yourself.”

“I am _not_ a hothead.”

“Well, it’s not really a winnable argument, is it?” Rupert continued. “If you give up, you concede that you are a hothead, but if you keep going, you prove it. See what I mean?”

An impish grin appeared on his face.

“Yes,” Maggie said. “Very clever.”

“Thank you, Maggie. I’m glad you’re big enough to admit your failings.”

“That’s not what I’m doing.”

“Would you look at her, Angus? She’s getting all red in the face.”

“That she is Rupert. Acting very hotheaded.”

Maggie put a hand to her cheek. It didn’t feel hot. Besides, she was not truly angry enough to be getting red, although the suggestion did frustrate her.

“I’m not going to let you get the best of me,” she said.

“I think you already have,” Rupert said.

Maggie opened her mouth to say something, but couldn’t find a way out of the bind Rupert had so elegantly described. Instead, she said nothing and left without a word to walk back to the castle.

“Look at the way she walks,” Rupert said to Angus—much more loudly than necessary in order to guarantee Maggie heard him. “Such anger, such malice. I almost fear for my safety.”

“Aye,” Angus said. “I’m shaking.”

Maggie turned around to see Angus with comically quaking knees. She smiled in spite of herself, but not before yelling a Latin insult referencing donkeys.

“Ah, Maggie, there’s no need to bring the language of the Holy Book into this,” Rupert said. “Are you really angry with us?”

“No,” Maggie said hesitantly. She didn’t think she was. “Would you treat a man like this?” she asked.

“Course we would,” Rupert said.

“Especially if he shot as bad as you.”

“There’d certainly be no danger in it.”

Angus elbowed Rupert in approval and then mimed firing a gun that knocked him onto his back, a clear imitation of Maggie, even though, in her defense, she had only let that happen once. Both men burst into gales of laughter.

“Viri sunt viri,” Maggie muttered. _Men are slime_.

The next day, in a fairly transparent attempt at regaining some dignity, Maggie suggested they go trapping.  

“Maybe I could even teach you a thing or two,” she said.

“No offense, Maggie, but we already know how to trap,” Rupert said.

“Well, yes, but I’m really good at it. If I do say so myself.”

“What’s there to be good at?” Angus asked. “You trap the rabbit, you don’t trap the rabbit. All there is to it.”

Maggie deflated somewhat. “Yes, but I’ve trapped a _really_ large number of rabbits.” This was true. For almost a year after leaving Donegal, she had subsisted on rabbit and berries and, when she ventured into town, the partially rotted scraps of meat people disposed of in their gutters. “And,” she continued. “I can trap big game too.”

Rupert and Angus were a good deal more impressed by this.

“Really now?” Rupert asked.

“Fairly dangerous for a wee lass,” Angus said and Maggie, who was not at all wee, looked down at him, trying to measure the exact difference in their heights.

He was right, though. It had felt rather dangerous the one time she did it, after a long winter—her second on her own—that buried grass and leaves all the way into April and starved out all but the hardiest animals.

In order to catch her prey, she had dug a deep, muddy hole and stuck wooden stakes around the edges, their sharpened ends pointing toward the center. Then she had placed a knotted rope—stolen from the barn of a man who looked like he could spare it—on top of the spikes so that any animal who stepped into the trap would be ensnared by it. This was something her father had taught her as well, but she had never used it before and finding a deer desperately struggling to break free the next morning had been shocking and even a little horrifying. Still, Maggie had been hungry and, through tears, she had shoved an improvised wooden spear through the creature’s eye and into its brain, which had killed it not as instantaneously as she would have liked but as quickly as she knew how to without stepping within range of the deer’s frantic kicks. She had not had a good way to preserve the meat so she had only eaten a small portion of it before dragging it into town to trade for a place to sleep and few weeks’ worth of warm meals. The man she had sold it to had a larder but still allowed a good amount of the deer to spoil, a carelessness that didn’t result in any less food for Maggie but still seemed like a horrendous waste given the terrible way the deer’s life had ended.

“I only caught big game once,” Maggie said, partially as an admission to Rupert and Angus and partially as a justification to herself. People and animals suffered all the time in this world and she had only been the cause of that suffering one time. The other animals she ate had been killed quickly.

“Even once,” Rupert said. “That’s really something, isn’t it?”

Maggie wanted to be excited by his admiration but realized she wasn’t.

“What’s the point, though, if you have a gun?” Angus asked.

“She didn’t have a gun,” Rupert answered for her.

“No, but for us like.”

“Well, naturally, for us, we’d just use guns,” Rupert said. Then he turned to Maggie. “What were you doing going after big game without a gun anyway?”

“There weren’t many rabbits.”

“Yes, but couldn’t your father have done the hunting for you?” Angus asked.

“No.” Maggie realized she had never told Angus or Rupert how she came to be at Castle Leoch. Only Jamie, Mrs. Fitz, Colum, and, she had to assume, Dougal knew where she had come from and how long she had been alone and, of those four, only Jamie knew the whole story—or as close to the whole story as she was ever going to tell. “He was gone by then,” she said.

“So he just went off and left you?” Angus asked.

“No,” Maggie said more loudly than she had intended. “He didn’t want to. The English… He was killed.”

“You dolt.”

Rupert sent his fist into Angus’s stomach. Angus let out a gasp but didn’t argue with the justice of the punch or try to retaliate.

“I’m sorry, Maggie,” Rupert said. “We didn’t know.”

“Aye. We thought your folks had sent you here to find a husband,” Angus said.

Maggie was grateful at the change the subject, but still groaned at the frequency with which the prospect of marriage was rearing its head as of late.

“What?” she asked. “Why would you think that?”

“Plenty of parents send their daughters to the castle looking for that,” Rupert said.

“Aye. You could do much worse than marrying a man here.”

Maggie smiled. “I suppose that’s true.”

“We thought you were doing a fairly poorly job of it, though, seeing as you and Jamie… Ow!”

Angus yelped as Rupert kicked him in the ankle.

“Will you quit hitting me? I’m just saying a girl’s folks wouldn’t want her marrying a fugitive, even if he is a laird.”

“Well,” Maggie said. “It’s never been my plan to marry any of the men here.”

“Plans can change,” Angus said, looking amorous.

“Not that either of us is the marrying type,” Rupert said.

“Christ no,” Angus said, crossing himself as if warding off some pervasive evil.

Rupert did the same and Maggie rolled her eyes, feeling a bit embarrassed by Angus’s comment about Jamie, but amused by the entire exchange nonetheless.

“Well, gentlemen,” she said. “It’s been a pleasure, but I think I’ll retire for now and help the ladies prepare supper.”

“You won’t find a husband if you hide in the kitchen,” Rupert called after her as she headed back to the castle.

Life proceeded like this for the next month, with Maggie rising most mornings before dawn to help with the morning meal, then, if there was no healing to be done, spending much of the rest of the day with either Broden or Angus and Rupert, three very different conversation partners. Then, at the end of each day, she would busy herself in the kitchen again, usually taking her meals with Mrs. Fitz and the other women.

At the beginning of February, on a particularly cold evening, the coldest one they’d had since December, Maggie found herself not in the kitchen, but rather flitting around the castle, shoving straw into cracks in the walls upon the orders of Mrs. Fitz. Castle Leoch appeared well-constructed from the outside and for the most part it was, but, on cold and windy nights, the many areas of the castle where the walls’ stones refused to lie flush against one another became uncomfortably apparent, forcing its occupants to fill the gaps with whatever was on hand. Tonight, it was hay. Just as Maggie was about to run out to the stables in search of more—she had not anticipated just how much she would need—the castle’s main door opened and Murtagh stumbled through.

“Mur—” Maggie began before being silenced by a sharp shake of the head.

“No one needs know I’m here,” Murtagh whispered as he approached her. Maggie could feel the cold he carried with him.

“At least come in and sit by a fire,” Maggie said, but Murtagh shook his head again. “Mrs. Fitz?” Maggie asked. Murtagh seemed beyond full sentences—too cold, tired, nervous for them—and Maggie assumed he would accurately take her meaning, _May I tell Mrs. Fitz you’re here?_ When Murtagh nodded, Maggie turned, threw a hand behind her to say, _Wait here,_ and ran off to find Mrs. Fitz.

After much prodding, Mrs. Fitz managed to convince Murtagh to venture further into the castle. She set both him and Maggie up before a fire in a secluded room, bringing them the night’s meal herself so that no one else would be alerted to the presence of their new guest. After Murtagh was seated by the fire, a blanket wrapped around his shoulders, and a steaming bowl of venison stew in his hands, Maggie felt she could finally ask questions.

“Jamie?” she asked, still feeling the need to keep her questions brief.

Murtagh shook his head without looking up from his bowl and Maggie felt a weight drop into her stomach. She gripped the bottom of her chair in order to keep herself upright.

“I’ve had no news since I left him,” Murtagh said.

“So,” Maggie began with a quaver in her voice. “So, he’s not dead?”

“Not that I know of.”

“Taing Dhia,” Maggie breathed out.

Murtagh lifted his head to look at her, remorse showing on his face. “Ah, lass, did you think—? I didn’t mean… I just… well, I haven’t heard. I’ve no reason to suspect anything bad.”

“Right,” Maggie said, placing a hand on her heart as if to encourage it to restart its natural rhythm. Apparently, she had assumed more than she should have. For a month, she had been growing more and more successful at pushing thoughts of Jamie from her mind. She had even started leaving prayers for him out of her nighttime ritual. When she saw Murtagh’s headshake, an image of Jamie dead on some frozen battlefield had flashed before her eyes. It felt like a fair punishment for forgetting about him. A goal that had once seemed so reasonable, noble in its practicality even, now seemed horribly callous. “What _do_ you know about him?” she asked.

“I went as far as Paris with him,” Murtagh said. “Got him set up with the soldiers there. Then I left. That was two weeks ago now, perhaps a bit more.”

“How was he, though? When you left him?”

“Good. He was good. He’s safer now.”

Maggie tried to keep her face still. She did not agree with Murtagh’s assessment of the situation, but they had hashed this argument out once before and there was no need to do it again. She couldn’t be angry now. In fact, she was moved by the rare smile that appeared on Murtagh’s face as he said the word, “safer,” the clear satisfaction he took from protecting his godson, the lengths he would go to do so.

“I know you don’t agree with me,” Murtagh said. “But it truly is for the best. A castle like this, all the people going in and out, it was only a matter of time before someone spotted him and went to the authorities. His size, his hair, there was no hiding he was a Fraser.”

“Is that why you’re keeping yourself hidden as well?”

“Aye.”

The two of them lapsed into silence then, focusing on their stew. Maggie felt good being around someone who cared as much for Jamie as she did—perhaps more, she thought, given her efforts to set the memory of Jamie aside. Now in the presence of one of Jamie’s true defenders, Maggie realized how much she had missed this and, with some surprise, how much she would miss Murtagh when he left.

“Will you stay a few days?” she asked.

“No. Just the night. I’ve spent enough time around MacKenzies to last me a lifetime.”

Maggie smiled. She didn’t believe him. After careful observation, she had come to suspect that Murtagh might even _like_ the MacKenzies. Not Dougal of course, but some of the others. Rupert and Angus at least, however unlikely that may seem.

“Leave it to Brian Fraser to marry outside of the clan,” Murtagh continued.

“Did you not care for Jamie’s mother?” Maggie asked. She tried to keep her tone even, although she felt unexpectedly defensive, given that Murtagh was referring to a woman she had never met. Perhaps it was the stories Jamie had shared of his mother—his obvious love for her, his desire to have had more time with her—that made Maggie so sensitive.

Murtagh’s response showed him to be equally sensitive to the question.

“I never said that,” he snapped and set his bowl roughly down on the hearth.

“I’m sorry,” Maggie said. “I shouldn’t have assumed.”

“No, you shouldn’t’ve.”

Maggie felt uncomfortable and was tempted to excuse herself but didn’t want this to be the way she and Murtagh parted.

“You know,” she said after several moments of silence, “I’m learning quite a bit about the marriage practices here. I just found out Rupert and Angus thought I came here to find myself a husband.”

“That’s ridiculous,” Murtagh replied quickly.

He still sounded angry, and Maggie knew she and Murtagh had never actually spoken his way with each other before, that they did not have the kind of easy give and take she and Jamie did. Still, she pressed on.

“I thought so too,” she said. She wondered if she should add Murtagh to the list of people who knew her reasons for coming to Castle Leoch. Had Jamie told him? “The real reason,” she said, “was that I had nowhere else to go.”

Murtagh nodded, seemed to soften. “I’m sure you’ll find yourself a husband someday,” he said. “Back in Ireland.”

Maggie bristled at the last part but tried not to think too hard about it.

“You never married, did you?” she asked, knowing she was prying but feeling compelled to carry on anyway.

“No.”

“Never found the right woman?”

“I found her,” Murtagh said. “It’s just that someone else found her first.”

“I’m sorry.”

Murtagh hardly responded, looking suddenly far away, transported to a memory of this woman.

“I got some time with her still,” he said, “even if it wasn’t exactly the kind of time I wanted. It was enough. But she died young, in childbirth. Left behind two children. They had a good father, but I still… well, I’ve always tried to do my best for them. To protect them.”

Maggie inhaled quickly but tried to hide it. She had never learned exactly how Jamie’s mother died, but childbirth seemed likely enough. It had taken plenty of women throughout the years. Whatever the cause, she knew his mother had left behind two children—Jamie and his sister Jenny. Maggie had to assume these were the children Murtagh had made it his life’s mission to protect.

“I’m sure you’ve done a good job of it,” she said, but Murtagh remained largely insensible to her contributions.

“I’ve often thought this sort of thing is easier for women,” he said. “The disappointment I mean. If a lass loves a man who doesn’t love her back, she’ll have to find herself another. No other option. It forces her to get over these things. Same with death. If her lover dies, she’s much better off finding herself a new one. A woman alone is a dangerous thing.”

“I’m not sure I understand,” Maggie said, even though she imagined she probably did.

“Women have to get married,” Murtagh responded.

“That’s not necessarily true.”

“You think a woman can make it on her own?”

“I have.”

“Aye. And have you enjoyed it?”

Maggie turned from Murtagh to look at the fire, wondering, again, how much he knew of her story.

“I’m sorry, lass,” Murtagh said, moving to place a hand on Maggie’s knee but thinking better of it and merely tapping her lightly before pulling his arm away quickly. “I just mean most women end up marrying someone. It’s expected. A man, on the other hand, should he meet a fine woman”—Murtagh paused here, looked up and over Maggie’s head—“and lose her… well, no one’s forcing him to marry. He could go on loving her his whole life. Never get over it. That sort of longing… it’s not good for you.”

Murtagh looked so sullen and contemplative, Maggie knew she shouldn’t badger him but she couldn’t help herself. She disagreed too vehemently.

“So,” she said. “You’re telling me that women have it _easier_ because everyone expects them to get married?”

“Yes.”

“That’s ridiculous.”

“Perhaps it seems that way now. But when you love someone and lose them, you’ll see. You’ll find yourself another man. You’ll have to. And then you’ll get on with your life.”

Maggie felt her cheeks growing warm. She moved her chair a few inches from the fire but this had no effect. She wondered why Murtagh was being so insistent. Was it merely that he disliked having his worldview questioned in such a way, or was he trying to tell her something? The same thing he had been trying to tell her with his remark that she’d someday find a husband _back in Ireland_.

“What are we talking about, really?” she asked.

“I don’t get your meaning.”

“What are you trying to tell me? That if Jamie dies in France, I should just forget him? That it’ll be easy for me?”

She expected Murtagh to try to deny it, but he didn’t.

“You’ve only known the lad for a matter of months. Of course you’ll forget him. You should forget him now.”

“You’re counting him out already? I thought you said he’d be safer in France.”

“The lad’s got a price on his head! He doesn’t need to die for you to lose him.”

“Right,” Maggie said. “What is this, Murtagh? Do you hate me so much you think you have to take this opportunity to talk me out of marrying Jamie? Well, don’t worry. It’s not going to happen. I understand that.”

“I don’t hate you, Maggie. You’re a good lass. I’m looking out for you.”

“Well don’t.”

“Now you’re just being difficult.”

Maggie rocked slightly on her chair, hoping the movement would keep her thoughts from exploding out of her.

“If Jamie died, would you just forget him, then?”

“Of course not.”

“Then how can you expect me to?”

“I’m his godfather. His mother was…” Murtagh paused. “His mother was very precious to me. And you, you’re just—”

“What am I just, Murtagh?”

“You’re just a lass he happened to pass some time with.”

“Thank you very much,” Maggie said, standing up so suddenly she knocked her chair over.

“What?”

“Thank you for your honesty. It’s appreciated. I hope you have a safe journey back to Fraser lands.”

“Maggie, I—”

But Maggie left before he could finish.

As she walked to her bedchamber, tears began to slide down her cheeks. She brushed them away so ferociousily she cut herself with her fingernail, making the soft flesh under her right eye sting with each new tear. Back in her room, she dug through her chest until she found the dress Jamie had given her, which she pulled out roughly and shook until the book inside of it fell to the floor. She picked it up, opened it to the place she had hidden her aborted attempts at letter writing, and ripped the scribbled on parchment out, accidentally tearing one of the book’s pages as well.

“Daingead,” she said, throwing the book onto her bed.

She threw herself on the bed now too, holding the parchment in both hands, unsure of whether to rip it to shreds or write on it. After all her hard work putting Jamie out of her head, he was firmly implanted once more. The idea that she could have ever gotten rid of him entirely now felt outrageously foolhardy to her. Her conversation with Murtagh had proved that well enough. It seemed as though everyone knew the depths of her feelings for Jamie except for her. Murtagh certainly did, although he clearly disapproved. Rupert and Angus suspected something as well. Mrs. Fitz surely knew. Even Broden seemed to have an inkling. She wondered if Jamie knew. Perhaps he did and this was why he had purposefully neglected to give Murtagh a message for her, not wanting to encourage her.

She moved her hands up and down the parchment, gripping first one side and then the next and pulling, keeping her grasp loose so as not to actually tear it, more just to see how it would feel. She looked up at the sound of footsteps pacing back and forth outside her door. A few grumbling throat clears signaled to her that the visitor was Murtagh. She stayed seated on her bed. If Murtagh was agonizing over whether or not to knock on her door, she wasn’t going to make it easier for him. When the footsteps continued unrelentingly, however, she grew impatient and flung the door open.

“Yes?” she asked angrily, an echo of the time Murtagh had emerged from his room early in the morning to chastise her for loudly knocking on Jamie’s chamber door.

Murtagh stopped mid-step and turned to look at her.

“Something for you,” he said, handing her a grubby envelope flecked with mud and who knew what else.

In contrast to the envelope’s dirt was the fine lettering of the address, _Mairead_. Maggie recognized it as Jamie’s script and excitedly turned it over to find the name _Alexander MacTavish_ written across the back.

“In case it was intercepted,” Murtagh answered her silent question.

Maggie expected him to leave as she carefully opened the envelope, but he didn’t, standing and watching her instead, about which Maggie chose not to comment, although she found it unnerving.

 _Dear Mairead,_ the letter opened.

  _I’ve made it here safely but cannot tell you if it’s the same as I remember it, for the men and I are camped just outside and our captain doesn’t dare let us enter the city for fear of the unsavory pursuits some of the men may engage in. I admit to some nervousness over what’s to come, but I’ve largely been enjoying myself, reunited as I am with the childhood friend I told you about. And yet, I still find myself missing you. None of the men here, regardless of any prior connection I may have had with them, can quite replace you. For starters, they are far kinder to me and refrain from unfairly criticizing my reading choices (Robinson Crusoe, in case you’ve forgotten). They also handle their liquor a great deal better. But, to be entirely serious, I do miss your company—perhaps even more than I expected. I selfishly hope that you are thinking of me half as much as I am of you, though I doubt it. Frankly, such a thing would be rather foolish and I know you to be anything but that. I will write you when I can, if I can. Please worry about me as little as possible._

_Until I return,_

_Alexander MacTavish_

Despite being written in Gaelic, which Maggie thought adequate in hiding its meaning from prying British eyes, the letter was vague, clearly trying to avoid any incriminating details, even up to the name of his childhood friend Ian. Still, it was enough. She had to smile at the continued formality even amidst the gentle ribbing, a clear marker of Jamie’s systematic, tutored education, as opposed to the haphazard one she had received from her mother. He was safe, he was not too miserable, and he was missing her. She would have liked to care less about this last part but figured it was time to be honest with herself about what she was capable of forgetting and what—and who—she was not.

“Thank you, Murtagh,” she said, surprised by the choked sound of her voice.

Murtagh nodded curtly. He chewed on his words before finally speaking. “I apologize for what passed between us just then.”

Maggie knew she should apologize too, but she was sorry for the angry way she had spoken and not for any of what she had actually said and didn’t want to be misunderstood. “Thank you,” she said.

“I do realize there’s more there than what I said.”

Maggie found Murtagh’s lack of specificity appropriate, similarly unsure of what exactly this “there” between her and Jamie was.

“Thank you,” Maggie said again. “I’m sorry I spoke harshly.”

“Ach, no. I’m a harsh man. I’m used to it.”

“You’re not as harsh as you might like.”

Murtagh emitted a grunt and shook his head.

“Thank you,” Maggie said for the third time and pulled him into a hug.

“Right, well,” Murtagh said as he extricated himself. “Pleasure. As always.”

Then he nodded at her so deeply it was almost a bow and strode off down the corridor.

Maggie smiled and looked down at the letter in her hands, running her fingers over its script, feeling the tiny dents and hollows Jamie’s hand had made.

 


End file.
